


LordHawke

by Joy_Pedler



Category: Ladyhawke (1985), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Animal Transformation, Curses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_Pedler/pseuds/Joy_Pedler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam 'The Moose' Wesson is a thief. Not a particularly good one, considering he's stuck in the dungeons of Heaven waiting to be executed.<br/>But The Moose wants to live, and escapes from the dungeons, only to find himself thrown into a story stranger than he could ever have imagined.<br/>Dean Winchester was once the Captain of Metatron, the Bishop's guard. The circumstances of his disappearance are mysterious to say the least, but after he saves Sam's life the young thief finds he can repay the favour by leading the Captain back into Heaven so he can kill Metatron.<br/>But who is the mysterious man with dark hair and blue eyes who appears at night?<br/>Why is the Captain so attached to the black hawk who flies by his side?<br/>And why is there a wolf with green eyes and fur like dappled sunlight who seems to follow them wherever they go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Somewhere, far away and in a different time, someone dreams of them.

Dark wings and blue eyes.

Brown fur and green eyes.

They twist and bend together, in harmony, but never together. No, never together. The dream is not a happy one. It breaks the dreamer’s heart, though they cannot know why.

In harmony, together, but apart.

But not forever.

* * *

 


	2. The Moose

It’s a tight fit, the mud packed hard and unforgiving around the Moose’s limbs. It’s not the first time that he’s cursed his tall frame, his lanky arms. They laughed when he swore he’d escape, told him that he’d never escape, that he stuck out too much, would never find a hole big enough for one as tall as him to escape through.

Part of him wishes he’d listened; so far they’re right.

Sam ‘The Moose’ Wesson. Moose for his height and build, though he supposes being a mouse would be better for a thief. Hunger will drive people to crazy things though, and so it was that the (too tall) thief found himself taking a loaf of bread from the baker’s store. Petty thievery, certainly, but it wasn’t his first time. They know him, ‘The Moose’ became a well known name amongst the patrols of Heaven, his height making him infamous, and so when caught with the stolen bread they were quick to throw him in the dungeons.

Sentenced to execution no less, but there was no way that he would allow that to happen, not over bread.

And so it was that the Moose found himself wedged in the dirt underneath the dungeons of Heaven, only able to move his limbs in the tiniest of increments.

“Impossible,” his voice muffled by the mud. “They told me it’d be impossible.” He grunts as the dirt dislodges enough for him to force his fingers forward an inch more. “Nothing is impossible.”

There’s give beneath his fingers, the dirt thinner here, and the Moose strains.

“Come on Moose, dig!”

With a final strain he pushes through the dirt, and feels air on the other side. The sewers.

He knows they’ll be looking for him now. Upon being told the date of his execution he made a vow to escape before then, planned for weeks. The grate in the floor of his cell, he’d measured it against his own body that first day. Sure, it had been an inch or two too small for him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

He can picture them, Metatron’s guards. Down to his cell, looking for him. They’ll think there’s been a mistake. Metatron would never allow anyone to think that the dungeons of Heaven are anything less than inescapable. They’ll check the nearby cells, only to find that he is not there. That is when the panic will start.

Gadreel, captain of the guard, well he’ll be the first to be informed, the guards too afraid to go to Metatron. Gadreel will go to Metatron then.

The echoes of prayer come through the dirt, the song light and lilting. It grows louder as Sam presses through the dirt, freeing more and more mud, his arms now able to move more in the space.

“This takes me back God, I guess this is what birth feels like,” he muses as he strains to free himself of the mud. He often talks to God, having no other companion with whom to converse. Thus far his requests of God have seldom been answered, but Sam knows not to take offence at God’s silence, it’s nothing personal. It doesn’t stop him from talking to God.

“God I swear I’ll never steal another thing till the day I die, but I have to raise this with you; if you don’t let me live, I’ll never be able to make good on this promise, and I don’t think I’d be happy to die knowing I made a promise I never fulfilled.”

He opens his mouth to start a new sentence, but the dirt falls away before him, and the Moose finds himself falling through the air, free at last, but utterly terrified. There is a moment of absolute petrification, as there is nothing but emptiness around him, sounds lost on his ears, and the Moose wonders if maybe this is what flying is like. Or death.

The thought doesn’t last, because soon the Moose finds himself crashing into water, and coherent thinking returns to him. He spits the foul tasting water from his mouth as he paddles through the water to the walls of the sewer. He grasps the bricks tightly, to pull himself from the water, and breathes.

Before he can thank God for whatever part he may have played in freeing him, he sees something floating down the stream of sewer water towards him. He can’t tell what it is, dark and foreboding. It could be a dead body, a huge creature, or something worse.

He scrambles to get further up the wall, away from the thing.

“God, if you’re listening then this ledge will stay sturdy, and that thing coming towards me won’t be what I think it is.” He pauses for a moment. “If it is what I think it is, well I suppose there wont be any hard feelings, though I’d be very disappointed in you.”

The Moose clings to the ledge with every ounce of strength left in his body, and braces himself as the thing gets nearer. He holds his breath, and only releases when it twists in the water and reveals itself as the skull of an ox.

He sighs in relief and glances upwards.

“You know I never doubted you for a second right?”

He releases the ledge to slip back into the water, and allows the current to carry him in the direction of the drains. The sewers lead out to the river, which is a far better place to be than the dungeons, especially on the day of one’s execution, and so the Moose strikes out with powerful arms to further his journey down the stream.

The sewer tunnels soon end at a grate, and though he winces slightly, the Moose takes a deep breath before plunging his head beneath the water, and opens his eyes to the metal of the grate. To his supreme relief there is a gap in the iron lattice large enough to fit his frame through, and he contorts his limbs through the space, the water turning clearer as he leaves the sewer behind.

When his head emerges from the water the Moose finds himself in open air, the sky a dimming blue above him, and he ducks against the brick of the bridge leading into Heaven; he cannot celebrate yet. Only a few feet away he can see the distinctive red cloaks of the guards, their sharp blades glinting silver in the light.

He moves silently through the water, holding his breath for fear of alerting the guards to his presence. He moves to the dock where they sit, and when he is certain they are well distracted by commotion on the dock he reaches over to where he spots a dagger, and as slowly as possible he pulls it out.

“God,” he whispers. “I know I promised, I know I told you never again, but you and I know that I am not strong-willed, and desperate.”

He carefully saws through the rope attaching the guard’s purse to his waist, slow enough not to attract attention, but quick enough so that he does not linger.

The purse comes away with a soft sigh of cut rope, and the Moose leaves the dagger on the dock, tucking the purse into his shirt. He slips back into the water, the river water slipping over his head, hiding him from the eyes of anyone above.

Heaven disappears behind him, as the guards fan out to search for him.

* * *

Gadreel runs a hand over his face, pushing his hair from his forehead. He knows the Bishop, Metatron, does not like bad news. He knows this from experience. But he also knows that Metatron likes being told nothing even less. 

So he stands outside Metatron’s chamber, waiting to be allowed in so he can deliver the bad news.

The door opens to a boy dressed in white robes, and he bows his head to Gadreel, signaling that he may enter. Gadreel doesn’t acknowledge the boy, and strides past him into the chamber.

The Bishop stands at a desk, facing away from the door, and Gadreel walks to where the man stands.

He waits to be acknowledged, the silence making him sweat.

“What is it, Gadreel?” Metatron asks, his voice calm on the cusp of boredom.

“I have bad news, Metatron,” Gadreel begins. “One of the prisoners has escaped.”

Metatron doesn’t react obviously, though Gadreel notices how his spine stiffens ever so slightly, how the Bishop turns towards him ever so slightly.

“No one escapes the dungeons of Heaven, Gadreel. That is what the people know, because that is what I have told them,” he says, voice still calm, but stiffer now.

“I take full responsibility, Metatron,” Gadreel says immediately, though he regrets it at the look Metatron gives him.

“Yes, Gadreel.”

“But, it would be a miracle if the prisoner made it through the sewers,” Gadreel reasons. Metatron simply smiles at that.

“I work in miracles, Gadreel. It’s my job,” Metatron says simply, and Gadreel swallows thickly.

“He was one petty thief, Your Grace, it should not worry you,” he tries to explain. Metatron turns away from him, to look out the window.

“Every story begins with a single word, Gadreel, and a single spark can ignite the fire of rebellion.” He turns back to Gadreel. “And you know the holy do not deal well with fire.”

Gadreel nods and straightens his posture.

“If he has made it out I will find him, Metatron,” he vows.

Metatron gives him that look again.

“Yes, Gadreel.”

With that Gadreel knows he has been dismissed, and when Metatron extends his hand, laden with rings, to him, Gadreel kneels to kiss it. With that he excuses himself and leaves Metatron.

The door closes behind him as Gadreel tightens his grip on the sword at his hip. He hates being humiliated, more so by the actions of one thief, barely more than a boy at that.

He will find the one they call ‘the Moose’, and he will bring him back to the dungeons of Heaven where he will be hanged.

Once he has been equipped with his armor and mounted his horse he appears before his guards.

“Ten men go toward Lawrence, the rest of us will go north to Memphis. The man who finds this Wesson will be rewarded, brought to the personal attention of the Bishop, along with the body of the man who lets him get away,” he announces to the men, before kicking into the sides of his horse, setting the white beast off.

* * *

 


	3. The Captain

The first thing Sam finds himself regretting is the fact that he was born in the coldest part of France. The second thing is his choice of time of escape. Somehow he timed it perfectly, so the cold of the afternoon sun turns his damp clothes to cold, damp clothes. 

“God,” he begins, arms wrapped around his middle to try keep himself as warm as possible. “I know I’m probably in no position to make demands, but if you feel like sending a friendly traveller my way, one with a hot meal, preferably lamb, well I wouldn’t object.”

The ground is rough on his bare feet, the riverbank mostly stones and loose dirt. He doesn’t dare stop, fear of the cold sending him into a deadly sleep keeping him moving.

He says a silent thank you when he happens across a small cottage, a smoking chimney showing him that there are people, and a fire. He watches for a moment from afar, and spies approximately eleven sheep in a pen. Two children sit outside the cottage, cleaning shoes, and Sam spots the man of the house tending a garden some way away.

He makes his way to the pen, and releases the sheep as quickly as he can. He watches as the man runs after the sheep, dropping his gardening tools as he chases them.

Seeing the opportunity Sam moves silently to the clothesline hanging from tree to tree in front of the cottage. Certain that no one will see him he pulls a dry shirt, pair of pants and woolen over shirt from the clothesline. The shoes he sees are harder to get to, hanging right in front of the two young children.

He decides the direct approach is probably better.

“Hello!” he greets the children brightly as he passes by.

The little girl and boy smile at him.

“Hello,” they reply.

“Look over there!” Sam suddenly points behind them, and when the two children look over their shoulders he takes the opportunity to snatch the boots from the clothesline.

“He’s taking daddy’s shoes,” he hears the little girl say as he dashes off. He knows he’s probably throwing caution to the wind, stealing from people after having just escaped from the dungeons of Heaven, but as he sees it he’d rather take the risk than die of cold.

He pulls the clothes on as he walks down the road, everything just slightly too big on him, but warm enough.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach an inn, and the jingle of coins at his belt is enough to draw him towards the sound of talking and laughing.

The inn is packed for so late in the afternoon, and the Moose walks up the steps jauntily.

“Innkeeper!” he calls out to the man. “Your most expensive drink!”

The Innkeeper is a stout man, hair dark and balding, rotund around the middle. He scoffs at Sam’s appearance.

“Yeah, yeah, show me your money and I’ll serve you your drink,” he says dismissively. Sam grins and lifts the hem of the woolen over shirt to reveal his purse.

“Don’t you worry, I’ve got money for your drink, and a drink for anyone who will join in a toast,” Sam turns to the patrons with a smile. They don’t reply, rolling their eyes at his words.

“I’ll hear your toast,” one hooded man replies, and Sam smiles in his direction, though the man has his back to him.

“We drink to a special man, friends, someone who has seen the dungeons of Heaven and lived to tell the tale!”

He speaks of himself, though will not reveal that, though the patron scoffs.

“Then you drink to me. I’ve seen those dungeons.”

Sam twists his face in confusion.

“Are you a blacksmith? A carpenter? A stonecutter? Surely not a prisoner from inside Heaven?” he inquires.

The patron pulls his cloak from something on the table, and Sam stiffens as the man reveals the helmet of the guards of Heaven. Not just any helmet though. This helmet is the gold and silver of the captain.

“I didn’t say I was a prisoner,” the man says, and removes his hood.

Sam knows his profile; a straight nose, small eyes, close cut hair. Gadreel, Captain of the guard, is known by all.

Sam backs away instinctively as Gadreel stands, and the rest of the men around him reveal themselves to be members of the guard.

“If you’d stuck to the woods you may have escaped Wesson,” Gadreel says, moving towards Sam, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Sam nods.

“You’re right.”

Sam looks for a way out, but there are too many guards, too many of them everywhere. Red cloaks block every exit, swords drawn.

Gadreel is too close, his sword drawn. As he lunges towards Sam the Moose reaches for the dagger in the belt of the nearest guard, and slashes at the captain. Gadreel hisses and recoils, hand at his face, and when he pulls away to show that Sam has left a cut on his face the Moose pales.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly, though the captain hisses at him as two other guards grab his arms, knocking the dagger from his grip. They pin him to a post, neck bared.

“Kill him,” Gadreel orders, and one of the guards presses their sword to Sam’s neck. The Moose breathes sharply and quickly now, panic rising in his throat. The guard draws back the sword, preparing to swing.

Sam is only part way through “may God have mercy on my soul,” when he hears a sharp noise nearby, and when he looks he sees that he hasn’t been decapitated, his throat not slashed, and the guard who moments earlier had been preparing to kill him lies moaning on the ground, an arrow in his sword arm.

All eyes move to where the arrow had to have come from.

Standing at the entrance to the inn, crossbow in hand is a black clad knight. His hair is short, but swept away from his face, a sun dappled brown. His face is sharply angled, cheekbones prominent, nose strong and bent upwards at the centre of the bridge. His eyes are piercing as he holds Gadreel’s gaze, a strong, grass green that makes his skin seem more bronzed, the few freckles across his nose and cheeks more sun-kissed.

His eyebrows are low, his stare intense, and by their reactions Sam gets the impression that every one of the guards knows who this man is.

“You.”

Sam knows that the man is addressing him, his rough voice simple but to the point.

“Out.”

The guards miraculously release Sam, and he moves carefully to where the knight stands. The knight shoves his crossbow into Sam’s hands, drawing his sword as he does, and Sam moves behind him.

“Someone said you were back,” Gadreel says with an unironic smile. “I had him sent to the dungeon for lying, because no one is meant to remember you. No one.”

The knight smiles slightly, just the slight quirk up of his mouth, though there’s carefully concealed pain beneath it. He moves towards the guards, but is stopped by one of them raising a sword to him. There is a look of familiarity between the men.

“Captain Winchester?” the man says, almost confused by his words, as though he isn’t sure of the memory he has of the man. The knight cocks his head slightly as he takes in the man’s appearance.

“Ash,” the knight replies, nodding slightly in recognition.

Gadreel moves forward then.

“ _Captain_?” he says, almost outraged. He pushes the guard forward, disrupting his balance, and Ash falls forward. Onto the knight’s blade.

Captain Winchester is startled, and lets out a soft noise of disappointment as Ash crumples. He releases his blade, and looks up at Gadreel, anger in his eyes, and before Gadreel can react he’s smacked him across the face with a closed fist, sending the captain sprawling.

Gadreel hits one of his men and sends the man and himself falling to the ground.

The guards surround the black knight, swords raised, and the knight backs away, headed for a string of horseshoes that lie hooked on a nearby post. He throws these at a guard who lunges for him, the metal disrupting the man’s balance and making him topple backwards.

The knight kicks the next man who approaches to the ground and dodges the swing of another man’s sword, using the man’s momentum to force him down.

A guard helps Gadreel to his feet as another lunges for Captain Winchester, though his blow is easily dodged and him easily disarmed.

Gadreel is slow, the punch making him stupid, and he fumbles to pull his sword out. Captain Winchester grabs onto him and pushes him backwards, into a fire burning nearby.

He moves to Ash, kneels by him, and frowns to see him dead.

Gadreel lets out yells as the fire sears him, his men helping to put it out as Captain Winchester pulls his sword from Ash’s body. He glances back at where Gadreel is rolling on the floor, trying to put out the fire, and uses the time to move away.

His crossbow lies on the ground nearby, forgotten by the Moose, and he picks this up as he runs to where his horse rests.

Nearby Sam tries to mount a horse left at the post, one of the guards no doubt.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says to the horse, the animal fussing and trying to get away from him. “I promise you I’m a good person,” he continues, though when he tries to mount it the saddle tips off, sending him toppling to the floor.

He hears Gadreel call out “Winchester!” and doubles his efforts to get a horse.

“Come on ladies,” he says soothingly as he approaches the other horses, though they move away from him as though in disgust. “Come on pretty girls,” he tries again, though the horses run away from him and he lets out a sound of frustration. “Painted whores!” he cries and starts to run away, giving up on the idea of the horse altogether.

He dashes down the road, away from the inn, his legs pumping.

He hears the sound of hooves beating behind him, and glances behind him to see the knight in black approaching on horseback.

“No, no,” he says as he starts to run from the knight.

The man reaches down and hoists Sam over the horse, draping him across the horse as he rides.

Sam looks up to see a guard closing a tall gate in their way, and winces as he closes his eyes from the impending disaster.

The last thing Sam hears is the sound of a bird’s cry, sharp and bright, and then they’ve jumped the fence, made it onto the other side, and are riding down the road, Sam sideways on Captain Winchester’s horse.

* * *

 


	4. The Man

The forest soon surrounds them, the trees thin and sickly. The light turns blue and pale as they ride, and the air soon turns cold around them.

A house appears in the distance, dark in the blue of the forest, though Sam hesitates when he sees smoke rising from the chimney. It’s late, Sam knows they will have to find a place to spend the night, but surely they can go further, look for somewhere more private?

“I think someone lives here, shouldn’t we keep going and look for somewhere else? It’s not dark yet,” he offers.

The knight doesn’t answer the question.

“Stop talking, we’ll stay here,” he says simply, gruffly.

A woman emerges from the house, talking softly, calling for someone, and her husband follows her. Where she is short and round, he is tall and thin, and they wear heavy coats and scarves that cover their heads.

“Sir, ma’am,” he addresses the nervous pair. “My friend and I need a place to spend the night.”

“No, no,” the man says, shaking his head. “You can’t stay here.”

“We can pay,” the knight says, and Sam lifts up his shirt to show his purse. The man pauses, eyeing the purse with dark, beady eyes, then nods.

“You can stay in the barn,” the man says, and the knight nods in gratitude to them.

At the barn they dismount, and the knight tethers the horse to a pole. He leaves the horse outside, and moves inside, immediately claiming the cleanest-smelling stall as his own.

“Um, sir?” Sam says to the knight.

“Dean,” the knight grunts in response as he sets out his things.

“What?” Sam replies.

“My name is Dean,” he explains, and looks up to where Sam watches him. There’s a look of almost sadness in the knight’s eyes at Sam’s words, but it’s soon gone. Sam thinks he must have imagined it. “What?”

“If, if there’s nothing else you want me to do, I think I’ll get some sleep,” Sam explains quickly. The knight, Dean, stands and moves to him, sizes him up.

“You can take care of my horse,” he says, and gestures to where the dark horse stands. “Needs some good grass to graze, a drink.”

Sam nods and moves to the horse, taking the horse’s lead.

“Come on boy,” he says to the horse, trying to lead it into the woods. The horse doesn’t move. “Come on then boy,” he tries again. The horse stays still. “Stubborn isn’t he,” he addresses Dean. “What’s his name?”

Dean watches him with disdain.

“ _Her_ name is Impala,” he corrects.

Sam nods.

“ _Her_ name? Pretty name,” he says, almost apologetic. Dean moves to the horse.

“Go with him Baby, he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he murmurs to the horse, rubbing her neck tenderly.

The horse moves, and Sam leads it into the woods.

“Don’t disturb me when you get back!” Dean calls after him, and Sam turns back. “I’ll take your head off before I realize who you are!”

Sam tries not to let the comment worry him, and leads the horse deeper into the woods.

* * *

Dean kneels before his pack, straw crackling against his legs. From his bag he pulls his helmet, dark black metal, though it is what is within it that he focuses on. 

In the helmet is a cloak, of a soft, cream material.

Dean pulls the cloak from the helmet, leaving the helmet on the ground. His fingers grip the material tightly, and he holds it to his face. He breathes in deeply, a scent of storms and lightning and rain filling his consciousness. He closes his eyes to the scent, allowing it to consume him.

It’s only when he feels the last rays of sunlight leave his face that he opens his eyes, to see the sun dip behind the trees; sunset.

“One day,” he breathes to the dying sun.

* * *

Darkness is blue black around Sam as he picks up wood from the forest floor. He pushes through the branches, the trees, gathering branches under his arm. 

“Friend,” he spits, letting out a small cry as a branch smacks him in the face. “Slave would be better. Tend the fire, see to the animals. Look at me God. I was better off in the dungeons, my cellmate was insane, thought he was Lucifer, but he _understood_ me,” he rambles, tucking branches into his bundle.

The forest floor crunches beneath his feet.

“There’s something about ‘Dean’, God. He saved me, but why?”

Some memory tries to come back to him, a person he knew years ago. Though he tries to let the memory come to him it refuses to, and Sam grunts in frustration.

He stops as he comes to a different realization.

“He wants something from me!” he exclaims. “I know it, it’s in his eyes!”

Sam feels almost offended by this realization.

“Well, whatever it is he wants, I won’t do it! I’m young, only twenty two. I have prospects! I’m going to find my own golden future!” he drops the bundle of firewood with an air of finality. “Well ‘Captain’, goodbye, and good-“

His ‘good riddance’ is cut off by the sound of a branch snapping beneath someone’s foot, and because he’s certain it’s not under his own foot Sam freezes, suddenly on edge.

“Hello?” he says to the forest, listening for noise. “Hello?”

There is silence for a moment, and then the snap again. Panic and paranoia grips his throat, as he quickly tries to think of a way out of this.

“What’s that Kevin? Who do you think is out there?” he talks to himself. “Oh, Garth, you brought your crossbow!”

He’s certain that if there is someone out there they’ll be as unconvinced by this routine as he himself is, but now that he’s committed to it he’s got to go through with it. “We’ll _all_ go back to the barn now, all right?” he changes his voice, deepens it. “All right.” Now higher. “All right.”

The crack of another branch is enough to set him off, running through the forest at full speed.

“Show no mercy Kevin! Take no prisoners!” he yells, desperately holding onto the figment of backup as he dashes. He lets out a yelp as the house and barn come into view, and trips down the slope, landing painfully on his shoulder. He scrambles to his feet, moving slowly now as he listens for noise.

He turns around just in time to see the owner raise an axe above his head, swinging for him. Sam lets out a yell, fear coursing through him.

Before the man can swing the axe into him there’s a blur of brown, and the next thing Sam sees is a huge brown wolf at the man’s throat, tearing it viciously. The wolf is massive, a beast, brown fur dappled with black and gold. It growls as it mauls the man, and the gurgles from the dying man soon turn to the silence of a dead man.

Sam doesn’t wait around for the wolf to move onto him. He bolts for the barn.

“Dean! Captain!” he calls out for the knight, ignoring his earlier warning. “Captain! There’s a wolf! Wolf!”

He pushes open the door to the Captain’s stall, and stops in his tracks to see it empty. He looks around the stall, searching for the knight, but lets out a grunt of frustration to find him nowhere. Seeing no alternative he grabs the crossbow and arrows, though he drops a bunch of the arrows on the way.

He makes it to the window, and has the wolf in his sight. He raises the crossbow and loads the one arrow that made it from the stall. He aims, though he shakes heavily, having to readjust multiple times.

He prepares to release the arrow when a hand grips his shoulder. He whips around wildly, expecting to see the Captain, Dean.

What he doesn’t expect to see is a dark haired man with the widest, bluest eyes Sam has ever seen. His hair is pitch black, dark as night. His lips are a shade of pink akin to the blushing of a sunrise, his eyes like gems that sparkle from behind dark eyelashes, his skin glowing and smooth. He wears a black hooded cloak. Sam stammers, taken aback by the man’s sudden appearance.

The man shushes him soothingly, and takes the crossbow, setting it down nearby. He moves to leave the barn, and that is when Sam snaps back to attention.

“Don’t go out there, don’t!” he grabs the man’s wrist. “There’s a wolf, a big wolf, the biggest wolf you’ve ever seen, and a dead man!”

The man doesn’t seem afraid, he just nods.

“I know.”

The man’s voice is deep and rough, soft but insistent. He slips from Sam’s grip, and leaves the barn.

“Wait, please!” Sam begs, though it’s too late. The man has left, gone into the cold, the night. To the wolf, the wolf that howls into the night.

Sam feels dazed.

“Maybe I’m dreaming,” he says to God. “But my eyes are open, which means, maybe I’m awake, dreaming I’m asleep. Or, or more likely, maybe I’m asleep, dreaming I’m awake, wondering if I’m dreaming.”

His words confuse him, send him in circles.

“You are dreaming,” the dark haired man’s voice echoes back to Sam from the darkness, and Sam scrambles away from the barn door, up the ladder to the upper level of the barn, so he can look out into the clearing.

The man with the dark hair walks calmly out into the clearing, feet bare on the damp earth. Sam’s eyes widen and breath catches when he sees the wolf come padding up to the man. The wolf is calm now, though red is splattered on its maw. It comes up to the man, and stops in front of him. The man kneels before the wolf, and takes its face in his hands. He holds its face, runs a hand along its snout. The wolf closes its eyes to the man’s touch, and when the man stands the wolf noses against his side. They walk side by side into the night.

Sam pulls away from the window, heart hammering in his chest.

“I did not see what I just saw. I don’t believe what I believe. God if there are magical or unexplainable things going on then please, do not make me a part of it,” he says quietly.

The night swallows the man and the wolf, leaving Sam alone to his thoughts.

* * *

 


	5. The Hunter

Dean stops them in the middle of the forest, the fog thick around them. On his arm the black hawk sits, silent and dark and peaceful. The trees here are sparse, the ground at an incline, orange leaves and rocks covering the ground.

“We’ll stop here. It’s not a good day for travelling,” Dean says simply, sitting himself down on a rock, back against a tree. The hawk is silent on his arm, letting out soft cries every now and then. Dean leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes.

Sam calls for the horse, drawing it to a tree so he can tie it off.

“Come on boy, I mean girl. Come on Impala,” he coos. He ties off Impala to a tree, looping the reigns around it tightly. “I could use some sleep, after the strange things that happened last night.” He sits down on a rock next to the horse. “The wolf, it could have killed me, but it tore out the farmer’s throat and left me alone.”

Dean doesn’t react to this, he smiles simply, and Sam feels slightly offended by his indifference.

“There was more,” he offers, and Dean raises an eyebrow. “There was a man, with skin like polished rose gold, and deep blue eyes, like a bird’s.” Dean doesn’t react to this. “And his voice, like a thunder storm.”

“He spoke?” Dean suddenly says, and Sam looks to him to find the knight watching intently now. “What did he say?”

Sam thinks back now, surprised by Dean’s attentiveness.

“I asked him if I was dreaming, he said I was.”

Dean laughs softly at that, and Sam frowns.

“I’m not insane, you have to believe me!” he insists. “He was there!”

Dean smiles.

“No, I believe you,” he says softly. “I believe in dreams.”

Sam is surprised by this, and raises his eyebrows.

“I see,” he answers carefully.

Dean swallows and licks his lips and runs a finger along his jaw.

“This man, did he have a name?” he asks Sam. Sam shakes his head.

“He didn’t mention one, why?”

Dean smiles and glances at the hawk.

“Well, maybe he’ll wander into my dreams, and it’d be nice, wouldn’t it, if I could call him by name and pretend we’ve met before?” Dean says softly.

Sam doesn’t say anything to this, the revelation not surprising, but still news. Dean doesn’t seem to be bothered with the sharing of this information, though realizes that his thoughts have drifted too far. He clears his throat and leans back again, his eyes shutting again.

“Get some sleep, the bird will alert us if anyone comes,” he says softly.

Sam watches Dean and the bird watches him with bright blue eyes. He rubs Impala’s leg gently.

“I’ve got to be losing my mind,” he says to the horse, God, whoever would listen. “Losing my mind.”

* * *

Gadreel arrives at Heaven, saddle sore and pride even more wounded. They open the gates for him, and he rides through the castle to the courtyard. An attendant takes his horse, and they let him through the doors to the Bishop’s garden.

A woman in a white robe dances to gentle music, the Bishop watching her, reaching out a hand for her as she dances. Gadreel stands by the fountain, waiting for Metatron’s attention, which is given when the dancer stands still and the music stops.

Metatron doesn’t look to him.

“Have you found the criminal Wesson?” he asks simply.

Gadreel swallows.

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he answers.

“Then why have you entered my garden, unwashed and unshaven? Do you think you’ll find him here?” Metatron snaps, turning to Gadreel.

Gadreel pauses only for a moment before delivering the bad news.

“Dean Winchester has returned,” he announces simply, though the change in Metatron’s demeanor is immediate.

Metatron pauses.

“Walk with me,” he instructs, and moves away from the musicians, Gadreel following him. He gestures for Gadreel to speak.

“The criminal, Wesson, is travelling with him. My men are searching the woods for them,” he explains. Metatron nods.

“Did anyone know him?” he asks, to which Gadreel shakes his head.

“One of my men almost knew him, though it was as though he knew him from a dream. That is normal, is it not?” he asks of Metatron.

The Bishop nods.

“A person cannot be erased completely. There will always be lingering memories that people will dismiss as dreams,” he explains. “What about the hawk?” he asks as they walk the marble floors.

Gadreel frowns.

“The hawk?” he repeats.

Metatron walks impatiently.

“There will be a hawk, an intelligent hawk. You aren’t to hurt it. The day the hawk dies will be the day a new captain of the guard attends your funeral,” he says darkly. Gadreel nods, confused by the words.

Metatron leads him down the corridors, their footsteps echoing.

“We live in difficult times Gadreel. The famine has kept people from paying proper tribute to the church. I raise taxes, only to be told there’s nothing left to tax!” he exclaims. “Imagine that! But last night, God visited me in my dreams. He told me that a demon walks amongst us, and his name is Dean Winchester.”

Gadreel isn’t sure of what to say to this, and so simply nods.

“Go,” Metatron orders, and Gadreel bows to him, kissing his ring. Gadreel leaves, head bowed, grateful for his life.

Metatron turns to the balcony, where his guards stand, and leans over the railing to call out an order to them.

“Get me Abaddon."

* * *

Sam swings the long sword over his head, the metal swishing smoothly through the air. It doesn’t cut through the wood completely, but there’s no axe handy, and this is the next best thing.

He breaks it apart and sets it aside, and prepares the sword for another swing.

He raises it above his head and prepares to swing it again, when a sudden clamp on the sword stops him, and has him turning around wildly.

Dean stands behind him, gripping the sword.

“What are you doing with my sword?” he asks sternly, pulling it from Sam’s grip.

Sam stammers, and cannot answer. Somehow the sword had felt at home in his hands.

“This sword has been in our family for five generations,” Dean gestures to a golden gem on the hilt. “This jewel is for our family name.” A pale purple one. “Our alliance with the Holy Church in Rome.” A dark red one. “Father’s, he took this from Azazel the Bloody.”

Dean points to an empty space on the hilt.

“This one…”

Sam raises his hands.

“You don’t think I took that one-“

“-This one hasn’t been filled yet. I have to fill it, each generation must follow its quest,” Dean explained.

“What’s your quest?” Sam asks curiously.

Dean pauses.

“I have to kill a man.”

Sam lets out a low whistle.

“Does this walking corpse have a name?” he asks. Dean nods as he twirls the sword.

“Metatron, Bishop of Heaven.”

Sam swallows thickly.

“Ah. Metatron. I see,” he takes a soft step away from Dean. “Well, I guess you have your work set out for you, and I’ve already been enough trouble. So, I hope we meet again some day, and I guess I will leave you to it then,” he says, and starts to walk away from Dean.

“I need you to get me into the city,” Dean says quickly, and the Moose stops in his movements to raise an eyebrow.

“Not for the life of my mother! Even if I knew who she was,” he says seriously.

“You’re the only one who has ever escaped,” Dean reasons.

Sam shakes his head.

“It was chance, just that, a miracle; I fell down a hole and worked from there,” Sam explains.

Dean moves to Sam, standing near him.

“I’ve waited years for a sign from God. When I heard the bells ringing to signal the escape of a prisoner I knew it was time, my destiny had come. You will lead me into the city, to my destiny.” he insists, looking into Sam’s eyes. “It has to be you, you’re my-“ Dean cuts himself off though, doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m your what?” Sam asks, though Dean just looks away.

“My guide,” he says, but Sam knows that’s not what he wanted to say.

Sam shakes his head.

“Look, there are strange things in your life, magical forces that surround you. I don’t understand them, and frankly I don’t want to; they frighten me,” he says seriously. “You saved my life, and I’ll never be able to repay you. I have no honour, I never will, but I don’t think you’d kill me for that, but better that than return to Heaven.”

Sam nods, turns and starts to walk away. He’s only taken four steps when a whoosh beside him sounds, and he turns to see the sword embedded in the tree trunk only inches from his head. He turns to Dean to see the knight still in throwing position.

“I’ll, I’ll get some wood, for the fire,” he stammers, and heads in the opposite direction. As he walks away he thinks that Dean had said “our family”, but that’s absurd, and he dismisses it as his hearing going bad.

* * *

The man runs between the trees, arms extended to the rabbit running ahead of him with a knife in his right hand. The darkness doesn’t deter him, spurs him on, and he gets close to the rabbit a few times. 

It’s only when the rabbit hides in a bush that the man knows it’s caught, and stoops down low to grab it.

“Sir?” a voice echoes out in the night. The man glances up quickly, too quickly, and the rabbit darts away.

“Damn it,” the man curses, and stands up straight.

“Sir? Up here,” Sam calls out to the dark haired man. “Do you remember me?”

The man walks to where the voice comes from, and looks up to the trees to find Sam tied to a tree. His arms are locked behind his back, tied tightly with ropes.

“What are you doing up there?” he calls up to the boy, head cocked slightly to the side as he watches the boy bemusedly.

“What am I doing? Well, I guess you would ask that. It was Metatron’s guards, at least a dozen of them, we had a fight,” he fabricates. The blue-eyed man smiles slightly.

“Why didn’t they kill you?” he asks.

Sam nods.

“Why didn’t they? It’s a good question, I asked them that myself.”

The man raises his eyebrows.

“And?”

Sam looks to him.

“And?”

The man lets out a soft laugh.

“And what did they say?”

Sam looks upwards.

“They, they said… that they would leave that honour to Metatron. They’re coming back,” he says. The man’s eyes widen in false surprise.

“They are?” he says, a smile at the corner of his mouth, alight in his blue eyes.

“Please sir, I need your help. Please?” he almost begs.

The man hesitates, but lets out a soft noise, and moves to the tree. He holds the knife properly, gripped in his palm, and saws through Sam’s ropes.

“That’s very kind of you sir,” he thanks the man, who whips his head around when the wolf lets out a howl, soft and low in the night.

“Listen,” the man says softly, though when he turns back to Sam he finds the boy gone.

“Thank you very much sir! Tell the Captain he ties a good knot!” the boy calls back to the man, his voice lost in the darkness of the forest.

The dark haired man lets out a frustrated noise and runs a hand through his hair.

“He’s going to kill me,” he breathes to no one in particular.

* * *

 


	6. The Monk's Tale

The knight in black sits upon his horse, the sunlight gleaming behind him, turning his brown hair gold, lighting his green eyes from within. The black hawk lets out a cry as it flies past, and lands on the knight’s arm.

Dean smiles at the hawk.

“Good morning, let’s go find Sam.

* * *

 Sam watches the knight from the hill, avoiding him. It’s not that he doesn’t like the man, just that he wishes not to return to Heaven, and there’s something about Dean that leaves him unsettled, like an itch on the back of his neck that can’t be scratched. He backs away from them, out of view, only to jump when he feels a blade pressed to his back. 

He turns to see the red of Metatron’s guard, and is pulled roughly to his feet by a man in armor. He twists and struggles, but to no avail, the man’s grip on his neck too tight.

He is pulled to where now he sees a squad of guards are camped, and is restrained by two of them, their hands gripping his shoulders. Their leader, a tall man with dark hair, approaches.

“Long way from the sewers aren’t you moose?” the man asks, smiling sadistically. “Where is Winchester?”

Sam puts on a look of confusion.

“Winchester? Winchester? Oh!” he makes a look of surprise. “You mean the daunting man, black horse. He’s riding south, to Heaven.”

A man behind the leader frowns.

“Then we ride north sir,” he nods to the leader conspiratorially.

Sam frowns at the man.

“You shouldn’t assume someone is a liar when you’ve only just met them,” he says in annoyance, trying to mask his nerves.

The leader squints at him in suspicion.

“And yet somehow you knew we would. We ride south, to Heaven.”

Sam realizes he’s given away Dean’s position, though too late. He looks to the sky in frustration.

“I told the truth God! How can you want me to learn a moral lesson when you keep confusing me like this?” he exclaims to the sky.

* * *

 

It’s a quiet village, the houses just canvas held aloft by sticks, so Dean shouldn’t be suspicious of it. Yet he can’t help but feel a sense of apprehension in his gut. It’s too quiet, too peaceful.

He rides Impala carefully, cautiously.

Sam is behind one of the haystacks, hands bound, mouth gagged. The guards in his view draw their swords, prepare their crossbows. It’s quiet but he can hear the telltale sound of Impala’s hooves, and knows that Dean is nearby, and so he struggles, makes a noise, does anything to alert the knight.

Dean hears it, a soft yelling, and the hawk takes flight, letting out a scared cry.

The nearest guard knocks Sam to the ground to shut him up as the others ride out from behind the haystacks, yelling out as they ride towards Dean.

Dean quickly pulls his own crossbow from where it sits and loads up a bow.

His aim is sharp and perfect, and he hits the first man square in the chest, the second man too. He wheels Impala around, looking for attackers, and sees one riding towards him from a short distance, sword held aloft.

Dean simply whacks the man across the face with the crossbow when he’s close enough, and drops it shortly.

Two men with crossbows sit a distance from Dean, and Sam who has freed himself from his bindings picks up a rock and throws it at the first man’s head. It hits him cleanly, but he fires an arrow as he falls, aimed at the sky.

The hawk flies above them, black against the sky.

In slow motion it seems as though the arrow strikes the hawk, and both Sam and Dean look to the sky to see the bird drop, letting out a wounded cry.

The second man shoots and hits Dean in the shoulder, and Dean falls from Impala as the hawk falls from the sky. He lets out a yell of fear and pain as he watches the bird drop, its cries growing weaker, more pitiful.

“No,” he breathes.

Dean forces himself onto Impala’s back, wrenching the arrow from his shoulder.

The guard rides towards him, a sword raised, though Dean simply holds out the arrow and stabs the guard in the stomach as he rides past.

The guard drops his sword and crumples.

Another guard hoists his sword up and rides out, letting out an aggressive yell, though Dean pulls his long sword from its scabbard and rides out to meet the man. The guard is startled by Dean’s deadly expression though, and turns around to ride away.

Instead Dean stops Impala near the fallen hawk, and dismounts clumsily, the wound on his shoulder making him lightheaded. He approaches the hawk carefully; worry and fear etched in his face, and kneels by the bird, touching its feathers gently.

Sam comes to stand by Impala and watches Dean.

“Easy, easy, you’ll be all right,” he says softly to the bird, breathing words of reassurance and calm. He turns to Sam. “Get me a piece of cloth, from my pack!”

Sam moves to Impala and pulls through the things in the pack. It’s in a helmet that he finds cloth, a pale cream coat of soft fabric. He stuffs everything back into the pack and runs the cloth to Dean.

“Thanks,” the knight breathes, and takes the cloth carefully. He wraps the hawk in it, tucking it into the folds of the fabric.

The hawk lets out soft noises, hurt and afraid.

“It’s all right, you’ll be all right,” he repeats to the bird. Sam can only watch, knowing there’s nothing to be done. Dean picks the bird up carefully and stands straight. He turns to Sam. “Take him, find help.”

Sam backs away.

“Me?” he says doubtfully.

“You’re the only friend I have,” Dean says, holding the hawk out to Sam.

“But, the hawk,” Sam winces as the bird lets out a cry. “He’s done for.”

Dean grabs Sam’s shirt with his free hand.

“Don’t you dare say that!” he growls as he holds Sam close. “Follow the road. There’s a ruined castle a few miles down. There’s a monk there, called Bobby. Give him the hawk. He’ll know what to do.”

Sam shakes his head.

“I don’t, I can’t-“

“-Take my horse,” Dean insists. Sam shakes his head.

“But, you’re the only one who can ride her,” he reasons.

“Do what I tell you!” Dean yells, the bird cradled in his arm. “Get on the horse now!”

Sam backs away as Dean presses the bird into his arms, and holds it carefully, the soft noises beautiful and sad. Dean pulls the horse over and forces Sam onto it.

“Follow the road; if you fail I will follow you the rest of my life, and I will find you,” he says darkly as Sam mounts the horse. “Go.”

Sam nods, tucks the bird against his chest, and kicks Impala. This time the horse takes off without question, off to a gallop. They ride through the fields, the sun going from high above them to almost near the horizon.

It’s only when the sun turns from bright to gold that the castle comes into view, and Impala slows down from her gallop. Sam turns to the hawk, still sighing soft cries in his arms.

“There it is, the castle. We’ll be there soon,” he murmurs comfortingly, and reaches out a finger to stroke the bird. It bites him on the finger and he recoils. “No need to thank me!”

* * *

 In the field Dean kneels, arrow wound on his shoulder forgotten. His sword is stuck in the ground, the sun dipping lower and lower.

“Please,” he prays to the wind, to the sun, the moon.

“Please.”

* * *

 Sam looks up to the ruin of what once may have been a beautiful castle. Now the facades have fallen, the bricks crumbling.

“Hello!” he calls to the castle. “Hello!”

He waits, and a moment later a voice resounds in response.

“What do you want?” the voice of an old man calls.

Sam swings from Impala’s back, carrying the hawk carefully.

“I was told to bring you this bird! He’s wounded!” he replies. A face appears at the top of the drawbridge, an old man with a thick beard and small eyes watching Sam from over the bridge. He nods happily.

“Good shot! Bring him in, we’ll eat it together!”

Sam frowns.

“No, we can’t eat this bird, it belongs to a man named Dean Winchester!”

The old man freezes at this, his face fallen, and he crosses himself.

“Dear God,” he breathes. “Bring him in boy! Bring him in!”

The door opens, and Sam scampers up the path carefully, the bird crying in his arms. He comes face to face with the old man, his face lined and hair messy. The man squints at Sam, taking in his face, and frowns.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks.

“Sam,” Sam answers, holding the bird carefully. The old man’s eyes widen as he looks closer at Sam’s face.

“Sam what?” he asks. Sam frowns and leans away from the man.

“Wesson. Sam Wesson. The Moose,” he says quickly. The man seems confused by this answer, but nods, and turns to the stairs.

“Follow me.”

The old man directs him up the crumbling stairs, to a room lit by candles and draped in furs.

“Here boy,” the old man, the monk, Bobby, clears a space on the furs. “Put him down here.”

Sam lays the hawk down gently on the furs, its cries escalating as he does.

“Gently!” Bobby insists, and only when the hawk is laid on the furs does Sam take a step away. The monk moves to the hawk, taking in its form, and then looks to Sam. “Get out, idjit!” he shoos Sam from the room, following him to the door.

“Can’t I help?” he asks, though the monk ignores him, and locks the door to the room behind them. The monk starts to potter around, through roots and herbs, leaving Sam outside.

Sam waits for the monk to disappear from view, and then races to where he’d seen the monk deposit the key to the room. He pulls it from under a pot, and inserts it into the door, turns it, opens the door and slips inside. He closes the door behind him and turns to where he had laid the hawk on the furs.

But there is no hawk on the furs. Not anymore.

It is the man, the dark haired, blue-eyed man, skin smooth and face pale, pierced by an arrow through his chest. He looks up when Sam enters, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin as his chest heaves.

“Dean,” the man rasps. “Is he-“

“-He’s fine,” Sam reassures, the mystification of it all not hitting him yet. “There was a fight, Dean fought like a lion.” He pauses. “The hawk was hit, you know that, don’t you?”

The man nods, pain flickering across his face as he winces.

Sam approaches slowly.

“Are you flesh, or spirit?” he asks carefully. The man closes his eyes.

“I am nothing.”

Before Sam can speak again the door opens, Bobby entering. When he sees Sam he starts, surprised, but stops at the sight of the man on the furs. He stammers at Sam.

“Get out now, and stay out this time!” he mumbles to Sam, and pushes him out of the room.

The door closes behind the boy, leaving the monk alone with the man. They both know what must be done, the arrow in the man’s chest staining his skin red with blood. The monk applies a mixture of herbs and roots to the wound, doing his best to stop the pain.

Somewhere in the night the wolf howls, and Sam covers his ears to the desperate sound.

The man takes the monk’s hand and guides it to the arrow, his chest glistening with sweat. He winces as the monk grips the arrow, and grinds his teeth together.

Somewhere in the night Metatron stirs in his sleep.

Somewhere in the night the wolf cries.

The monk grips the arrow and wrenches it from the man’s flesh.

The man screams, loud and high, like a bird.

The wolf cries for him.

Metatron wakes in the night.

* * *

 “Forgive me, Your Grace,” the guard apologises. “Abaddon has arrived.”

* * *

 Sam and Bobby sit by the fire, eating bread and cheese. The night is dark and heavy around them, and Sam’s thoughts are restless.

“It’s him,” he says simply. “Isn’t it? The wolf, somehow, it’s him.”

The monk doesn’t answer.

“Drink,” he grumbles, handing him the bottle. “Forget.”

Sam shakes his head.

“An hour ago you were drunk, but you still remembered,” he retorts. Bobby regards him with a suspicious eye.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks roughly.

“Sam, Sam Wesson.”

Bobby is still, thinking, but looks to the door.

“ _His_ name is Castiel Novak. His father was Count Novak, absent fellow, died of pneumonia in the north. He came here to live with a cousin, I think, in Heaven,” Bobby pauses. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. It was like…”

“Like looking at heaven,” Sam finishes. Bobby looks at him.

“Seems everyone feels that way,” he muses. “Everyone loved him in some way. Even Metatron, the Bishop.”

“The Bishop loved him?” Sam exclaims. Bobby shakes his head.

* * *

Metatron saw Castiel as an angel come to earth, pure and beautiful and divine, and he loved and hated Castiel for it. Metatron had always insisted that he alone possessed knowledge of Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, and the first time he saw Castiel he was convinced that Heaven had sent him to earth, for him.

But Castiel could sense Metatron’s true nature, the evil and ugliness that lurked in his soul. He didn’t answer any messages Metatron sent him, no letters, and no poems.

Castiel was already in love, with the Bishop’s Captain of the Guard.

Dean Winchester.

They met as so many young lovers do; by chance. Castiel didn’t like Heaven, he’d lived away from the city in the north, in a castle in the mountains surrounded by the untouched beauty of nature, and the sudden business and solidity of Heaven unsettled him, and so he had taken to wondering at night. Dean patrolled the streets of Heaven every night, protecting the people. He came across Castiel at God’s Arch; Heaven’s bridge.

At first the Captain was concerned for the citizen who was alone in the middle of the night, watching the moon from the bridge, and so he approached the man.

“Hello?” the Captain called out to the man. Castiel turned sharply, surprised by the sudden arrival of another.

The man immediately struck Dean. Bright, blue eyes, pitch-black hair, an expression of innocence and purity on his face. He moved from the bridge’s railing, hands folded in front of him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean,” the dark haired man stammered as Dean approached. The Captain raised his hands, showing the man he meant no harm.

“It’s fine, you’re allowed to be here,” he reassured the man. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lost.”

The dark haired man smiled.

“No, not lost. Just in need of a walk,” he explained, and tightened the cream cloak around his shoulders. Dean smiled and nodded.

“If you’re all right, then I’ll leave you to your evening,” the Captain said calmly, trying to ignore the feeling of intense warmth that spread from his core as the man’s scent reached him; rain, storms, and what lightning must have smelt like.

The man opened his mouth slightly.

“You are the Captain of the Guard?” he asked carefully. Dean nodded.

“That’s me,” he extended his hand to the man. “Captain Winchester, Dean.”

The man took his hand.

“Castiel Novak,” he responded. They held the other’s hand for a moment longer than would be socially acceptable. A pulse seemed to go through the two of them, a jolt of electrical energy. It was clear that both had felt it, Castiel let out a slight gasp, Dean a sharp intake of breath.

They were destined to be lovers. Across time and place, destined to meet and be together. When it happened in this lifetime they could both sense the collision of intertwined fate.

They did not know, but could feel.

“I, I’m sorry,” Castiel gasped, releasing Dean’s hand and backing away. The Captain snapped to attention the moment Castiel’s hand left his.

“No, wait,” he reached for the dark haired man, but Castiel backed away instinctively, almost frightened of the sensation he had felt at Dean’s touch.

“I have to go,” the man insisted, and moved away from the Captain. Before Dean could react the man had disappeared into the shadows, moving silently and surprisingly quickly through the streets of Heaven.

In a moment he was gone, leaving the Captain with nothing but the memory of the electric sensation of their touch.

* * *

Bobby tips back a gulp of wine.

“Metatron didn’t know of their love, but he had already come to despise Castiel for the feelings he felt for the angel. He blamed Castiel for his own ‘unholy’ thoughts, and though he came to believe that he loved him, he hated him just as much for never loving him back.”

Sam looks to Bobby intently.

Bobby sighs deeply.

“They were betrayed. They confessed to the same weak, foolish priest. He was drunk, and he confessed their secret to his superior. He revealed their secret vow to the Bishop. The priest didn’t realize then what he’d done.” Bobby pauses to breathe. “Metatron was enraged. It was a sin in his eyes, but only because Castiel would not be with him. He swore revenge on them, he went mad, swore that if he couldn’t have Castiel then no one would. Dean and Castiel fled from Heaven, but Metatron followed them.

“He was an evil man, hated and feared, rejected even by Rome. He called upon dark magic for the means to damn the lovers. In his fury and frustration he struck a deal, with Satan himself. He cursed the lovers, a terrible curse.”

Bobby looks to Sam.

“You’ve seen it already,” he breathes. “By day Castiel is the  hawk you brought to me, and by night as you have guessed, the wolf that you hear crying is Dean. They are only creatures, and have no memory of the lives they live as humans, never touching. They only have the split second at sunrise and sunset, where they can almost touch, but not.”

Sam lets out a sad breath.

“Always together, eternally apart.”

Bobby nods.

“As long as the sun rises and sets, as long as there is day and night, and for as long as they both shall live,” he swallows a gulp of wine. “It’s a sad story you have found yourself in, Sam Wesson. And now, whether you like it or not you are lost in it, with the rest of us.”

Sam breathes, something not quite settled in his mind.

“There’s something else, something about them that you’re not telling me,” he says to Bobby, who raises an eyebrow. “One of the guards seemed to remember Dean, but wasn’t quite sure. It seems like no one remembers him, but if he was Captain of the guard…”

Bobby swallows thickly, nervous.

“Metatron couldn’t have anyone knowing the atrocity he had committed,” he begins softly. “Rome would have him excommunicated, the people would rebel. So he called on the darkest of spirits to remove Dean and Castiel from the minds of all who had known them, make them ghosts in the memory of the people.”

Sam frowns, looking to the fire.

“What about their families?” he asks softly, something in his mind fighting to be remembered that sends uncomfortable tendrils down his spine. Bobby watches him with a sad expression.

“Even their families forgot them,” he answers, and Sam ducks his head, not allowing himself to believe. He takes a breath and looks to Bobby.

“So why do you remember?” he asks curiously. Bobby smiles ruefully.

“Metatron wouldn’t let me forget, besides even if I tried to tell anyone who would believe me? An old drunk.”

Sam looks to the sky sadly as the moon passes overhead.

* * *

 


	7. The Fall

Metatron’s gaze roams over the pelts, discerning, flipping them over and over. The hunter stands before him, her red hair perfect and her eyes bright, though her skin and clothes are dirty and torn.

“Useless,” he states. “All of them.”

Abaddon shifts her stance.

“My traps are full, I can’t kill every wolf in the forests, and since the plague there are more wolves than men,” she says, her mouth twisted acidly.

Metatron paces past the pelts.

“There is a man,” he says. Abaddon frowns.

“Your Grace?” she questions.

“A man, with sunlit skin, and the eyes of a dove. He travels only by night. His sun is the moon, and his name is… Castiel,” he says the words reverently. “Find him and you find the wolf. The wolf I want, the wolf who… loves him. A brown wolf.”

Abaddon has her back to him now, and tastes the word on her tongue.

“Castiel.”

* * *

Sam sits before the sleeping man, hair dark as night, wound bleeding through onto the thin white shirt he now wears. His skin is smooth again, the sheen of sweat gone. The man, Castiel, stirs, and opens his blue eyes. He moves to get up.

“Don’t,” Sam says, and Castiel lies back down again. “You might start bleeding again.”

Castiel stays still, and watches Sam with a soft look.

“Tell me your name,” he says. Sam smiles.

“Most people call me ‘The Moose’” Sam answers. “But my name’s Sam.”

Castiel pauses at his name and looks at Sam carefully, but nods.

“You travel with him, don’t you?” he asks, chest rising and falling evenly.

“Yes,” Sam answers. A look of sweet sadness passes over Castiel’s face, and Sam feels guilty. “He told me ‘you have to this hawk, he is my life, my last and my best reason for living’.” He pauses to think over his words. “Then he told me ‘one day we will know happiness, the kind two people dream of but never have’.”

The words did not truly come from Dean’s mouth, but they sound as though they might have.

Castiel smiles at that and looks to the roof with a soft, sweet look.

“He said that?” he asks, and Sam nods.

“I swear on my life.”

Castiel smiles and sighs, wincing slightly. He doesn’t have time to excuse himself, before sleep overcomes him again.

* * *

Their second encounter was again, chance, and again, at night.

Castiel’s room in his cousin Gabriel’s home had an adjoining balcony, a small space with only just enough room to sit oneself. Many nights he would sit there, in the moonlight, for it was his preferred form of light, and look to the moon and the stars.

Dean had no knowledge of where the mysterious dark haired man lived, the man whose touch had lit his senses on fire.

It was a regular night, a regular patrol, and Dean happened to walk down Castiel’s street, happened to glance up midway down the street, and happened to see the man seated on the balcony, face angled to the moon.

The sharp angles of the man’s cheekbones and nose were illuminated, his hair highlighted with silver. Dean watched as the man reached a long fingered hand to the moon, tracing the beams of the moon’s light with his fingertips.

Dean watched silently from the street, entranced by the man’s beauty, his silence and reverence. It was a step towards the balcony that knocked a stone from under his foot, and scuffled noisily in the silence of the street.

Castiel looked sharply down at the street, to Dean, and began to withdraw into the shadows of his door.

“Wait!” Dean called to him, careful to keep his voice low. Castiel heard the plea in the man’s voice, and for some reason did not back away, and stopped.

“Were you watching me?” he called down to the Captain. Dean raised a hand to the back of his neck.

“No, well. I didn’t mean to, I,” he stammered through his words, and Castiel smiled as the Captain blushed.

“Don’t worry Captain, I don’t take offence,” he said soothingly, and Dean smiled. “Though I think we’d disrupt my neighbors’ sleep less if we didn’t have to talk from so far.”

Dean glanced around, and before he could think it through had clambered atop the lower story window. From there he pulled himself onto the balcony, lifting his weight through his arms until he had swung a leg over the balcony and could sit on the rail.

His heart rate had picked up from the exertion, and Castiel smiled slightly at the man.

“Hello,” Dean said softly, and Castiel let out a soft laugh.

“Hello,” he answered. They didn’t speak for a moment, though held each other’s gaze.

“I promise I wasn’t spying on you,” Dean finally said, and Castiel laughed.

“I know,” the dark haired man reassured.

“Though that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you,” Dean added, and swallowed thickly, now unable to meet Castiel’s gaze. The dark haired man looked to the Captain intensely now, eyebrows low and folded, before he too looked away.

“Me too,” he finally answered, and Dean looked to the man now. Castiel looked to him, and Dean licked his lips slightly, that electric feeling intensifying again.

“What have,” Dean cleared his throat. “What have you been thinking about?”

Castiel looked downwards and swallowed thickly.

“That never before have I felt such a feeling as when we touched hands,” he breathed. “That the colour of your eyes reminds me of home, and that more than anything I have wished to see you again.”

Dean’s mouth opened slightly, his breath catching at the beautiful man’s words.

“What thoughts have you had of me?” Castiel asked, moving closer to Dean, the space between them quickly disappearing.

“I,” Dean began, breath catching as Castiel came close enough to make the pinkness of his lips apparent, the flush of his cheeks. “I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of your hand in mine, that you are like rain, and stormy weather, and lightning,” his heart thumped as Castiel came close enough to him that the scent overcame him again. “And,” Castiel took a step closer, his hand brushing Dean’s arm. “And,” Castiel closed the gap further still, his hand trailing up Dean’s bicep to his shoulder. “And that I would very much like to kiss you.”

Castiel’s breath hitched at the words.

“I,” he breathed as Dean’s hand came to rest on his waist. “I would like that very much.”

The last of the distance between them disappeared as their lips connected, and the electricity ran through them again, setting their skin on fire and making their heads light.

Under the light of the moon they kissed for the first time, locked in the embrace of eternal lovers uniting for the first of many times.

* * *

Sam emerges from the room into the darkness of the night. He sees Bobby sitting on the rock of the crumbling castle, and moves to him.

“Does Castiel know?” he calls out to the monk, and Bobby turns to him.

“Know what?” he asks.

Sam moves to sit beside him.

“That you’re the priest who betrayed them,” Sam says softly. Bobby doesn’t answer, just sets down his bottle of wine.

“God has finally sent an answer,” Bobby says softly. “He’s given me the knowledge to right my wrong. After two years he has brought us back together again.”

Sam frowns as he looks to the monk.

“Speak plainly, for all our sakes,” Sam says. The monk twists his mouth in annoyance, but continues.

“I know how to break the curse, and a time where Dean can confront Metatron and start his own true life over again,” the monk says, and Sam frowns.

“He wants to confront Metatron so he can kill him with his father’s sword,” he explains to the monk, and Bobby reacts violently at the revelation.

“No, he can’t!” he exclaims as he gets to his feet. “If he kills Metatron the curse can never be broken!”

Sam frowns, but before he can ask why there is the sound of horses hooves. The two of them look from the ruins of the castle, and a chill goes up Sam’s spine at the sight of red; the red cloaks of Metatron’s guards.

Bobby turns to the boy.

“Look after Castiel, go Sam, now,” he insists quietly, and pushes Sam in the direction of Castiel’s room. Sam scrambles away, rocks tumbling under his feet, the ground crumbling as he runs.

“Open this door in the name of Metatron, Bishop of Heaven!” he hears the guard call, and speeds up his run, pushing open the door to Castiel’s room. The man is still asleep, chest rising and falling gently, and Sam moves to his side to shake his arm slightly.

“Sir, sir,” he says with soft intent. “You have to come with me.”

Castiel wakes in confusion, blinking up at Sam. His blue eyes are wide and heavy with sleep, and he reaches his hand up to press against Sam’s shoulder.

“What is it?” he mumbles, pulling the fur from his body. Sam helps him to his feet.

“There’s no time to talk, you have to come with me,” Sam insists.

Outside Bobby pulls at a rope holding the bridge aloft, and the soldiers topple into what once might have been a moat. The monk darts up the path as the soldiers follow.

Sam leads Castiel in the shadows of the almost-dawn, stopping at a corner of the ruined castle to look around.

He spots a door leading to a tower and points to it.

“In here sir,” he says and pushes the still sleepy Castiel forward.

Bobby stands by the drawbridge, waiting for the guards and twists his mouth as they approach.

“This way,” he says, pointing to the drawbridge. “Straight through to the main doors.”

The guards pass him without another glance.

“And don’t forget-“ he begins as the guards stride straight across the bridge. He smiles as the floorboards give way under their weight and they fall down. “Walk on the left side,” he calls down to them with a slight chuckle, though when he stands up he’s greeted with a swift blow to the head that sends him to the floor as the guards go past him.

Sam leads Castiel up the stairs of the tower to a connecting bridge, though outside a guard spots them and calls out, and Sam pushes Castiel back through.

“Go back, go back,” he says hurriedly.

They climb the stairs of the tower quickly, and when they reach the top Sam pushes open the trap door for Castiel, opening onto the sky of the early morning.

Mist masks the mountains around them, turning the hills a pale white.

Castiel climbs out, but as Sam pulls himself through a guard grabs his leg from underneath.

“Let go of me!” Sam calls out as he kicks out, and his movement sends the guard off balance and toppling over so he can pull himself out of the stairwell.

He closes the trap door behind him and moves to the crenellations, looking for a way out.

“Sam, it’s me they’re looking for,” Castiel says as Sam dashes around the edges of the tower.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says sarcastically as he looks over the edges, unable to see a way down.

The trap door lifts behind him and Castiel lets out a cry, and Sam turns to see a guard trying to get up. He jumps on the trap door, forcing it down, though the guard pushes back, making him fall over. Sam plants all his weight on the door, trying desperately to keep it closed as the guard pushes up against it.

Castiel stands by the edge as Sam holds the door down, though he lets out a yell and jumps back when the guard pushes the blade of his sword through a gap in the door.

He falls backwards and knocks into Castiel, sending the man over the edge of the tower with a yell of fear.

Sam panics and lurches forward, grabbing onto Castiel’s arm tightly.

The dark haired man hangs from the tower, the ground far below, and yells as Sam tries to pull him back up.

Sam strains with exertion, he feels as though his shoulder might pop out of the socket. Castiel grips his hand tightly, panic and fear alive in his face.

“Sam!” he shouts for the boy, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. “Don’t let go!”

Sam strains, tries to pull the man up onto the ledge, but he’s too heavy, Sam too weak, his grip on the man’s arm too slick.

Sam feels him slip from his grasp, the slide of skin on skin. He shakes his head and tries to grip the man’s hand.

“No!” he yells as his grip slides, and he screams as in an instant Castiel is gone from his grip.

He can only watch in horror as the dark haired man falls through the air, twisting and turning. He starts to scream as he falls, and Sam cannot look away as he falls, falls, falls.

The sun peeks over the horizon, the smallest slither of orange gold.

Castiel screams again, and as it echoes out it changes, turns from human to animal, high and shrill, and Sam watches as the hawk rises into the sky, dark wings making lines in the sunlight as it rises from the horizon.

Sam looks to the sky as the bird flies away, and grins. He lets out a laugh, though he stops when he hears the trapdoor open behind him. A guard emerges, sword held aloft. He looks around, then pins his gaze on Sam.

“You!” he points his sword at Sam, who scrambles backwards until his back is against a pillar. “Where is the man?”

“He flew away,” Sam answers, moving away from the sword at his chest.

“Where is he?” the guard repeats, pressing the point to Sam’s neck.

“God’s truth he flew away!” he insists. The man is about to jam the sword into Sam’s neck when an arrow comes flying and hits the man in the side, just below his shoulder. The guard collapses, clutching his chest, and falls from the tower’s edge.

He looks over the edge of the castle, to the ground below, to see Dean astride his horse, crossbow aimed up at the tower. The knight extends his arm, and the hawk lands on it, and Dean smiles in a sad, but fond way to the hawk.

Sam laughs, and leans backwards to drape himself over the pillar.

“It pays to tell the truth God, I can see that now,” he says to the sky.

* * *

Sam emerges from the base of the tower to see Dean ride Impala up to where Bobby stands, hands folded across his chest happily. Dean rides up to where the monk stands, hawk on his arm.

“I thought maybe you were dead,” he addresses the monk. “There were a few times I wanted to kill you myself.” He looks to the hawk, a sweet look underneath the hardness of his expression. “But thank you, for this.”

Bobby nods, humbled.

“I should thank you for giving me a chance at redemption, and to save you and Castiel,” he says softly to the knight. Dean doesn’t look at him as the monk speaks. “God has told me how to break the curse.”

Dean scoffs.

“You betrayed us once, be careful,” the knight warns, his expression dark.

“Three days from now Metatron will hear the confessions from the clergy in the cathedral in Heaven,” Bobby explains before Dean can cut him off again. “All you have to do is confront him, the two of you, as humans, in the flesh, and the curse will be broken, and the two of you will be free!”

Dean shakes his head.

“That’s impossible,” he says simply.

“As long as there is day and night, yes, it’s impossible. But three days from now, in Heaven, there will be a day without a night, and a night without a day,” Bobby insists.

Sam watches from behind a crumbled pillar, listening to the monk’s words.

Dean’s hardened expression turns dark, angry.

“Go back inside old man, back to your drink,” he says angrily, turning his horse from Bobby. The monk splutters indignantly and approaches the knight.

“You think I’m drunk? I swear to you, God has shown me, he has forgiven me!”

Dean turns to the monk with a snarl.

“He hasn’t forgiven you, he’s made you mad!”

The knight holds the monk’s gaze for a moment, and then turns his horse away, and starts to trot away. The monk lets out a soft sigh, and Sam runs past him to catch up with Dean.

“Sir, sir!” he calls after the knight, though he doesn’t stop riding. “Sir!”

It’s only when Sam moves in front of the horse that Dean stops, a look of impatience on his face.

“How’s your shoulder?” Sam asks casually. Dean smiles slightly, just the upturn of a corner of his mouth really.

“I’m in your debt,” the knight says, and Sam shakes his head.

“No, not at all sir,” he says humbly. The knight makes a move to start riding, and Sam darts in front of him. He knows that Bobby has an idea, and he knows that for some reason he wants to help the wolf and the hawk.

“He wanted me to tell you,” he says quickly, and Dean stops suddenly, looking at Sam with an intent stare. Sam searches his imagination. “To say, he still has hope, faith in you.”

Dean watches Sam for a moment, and then glances at the hawk. The hawk lets out a soft cry, and Dean looks back to Sam.

“You’re free to go,” he says to the boy, and Sam nods.

“I know that sir,” he answers.

“Do what you want,” Dean continues, and starts to trot slowly away, Impala’s hooves knocking against stone.

“Where will you and Lordhawke go?” Sam calls after them. “To Heaven?”

Dean slows to smile at the hawk.

“Lordhawke?” he repeats, amused as he smiles at the bird. “Yes, to Heaven.”

Sam nods, and walks after the horse.

“Well, as it turns out, I’m going in that direction anyway,” he babbles, as he follows after the horse. Dean stops and looks back to Sam. The hawk lets out a cry, and Dean smiles.

“Really?” Dean smiles slightly. “Then you’d better get your things, we’re leaving,” Dean says, and starts to trot away from the castle. Sam nods, and races back up the stairs to the castle.

Dean smiles and shakes his head and glances at the hawk.

“Lordhawke,” he repeats.

Sam runs past Bobby as he grabs his coat.

“Bobby, I’m going with Dean, follow us,” he says quickly to the monk, who nods, stunned, before moving off to gather his things.

* * *

 

They ride through the fields, Sam running behind Impala as Dean rides. Somewhere high above them the hawk circles, crying out sharply.

“But, if Bobby’s right about breaking the curse,” he shouts with great difficulty after the knight. “If you and Castiel could face the Bishop, together?”

Dean doesn’t turn around to answer.

“Don’t mention it again,” he snaps. “Not to me and not to him.” Somehow Sam knows he means Castiel. “Do you understand?”

Sam doesn’t question him, just keeps running.

Some miles down the road Bobby’s mule trundles along, pulling his cart, following the sound of the hawk.

* * *

 


	8. The Trap

They arrive at an inn late in the afternoon, Sam riding the horse now, and a crack of thunder above makes him jump ever so slightly. 

“Sounds like it’s going to be a big one,” he says to Dean. “We’re gonna get soaked.”

Dean looks to the sky, and nods.

“Find a place to stay. Sun’s going down,” he says matter of factly, slinging his pack onto Impala’s back. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“How can you tell?” he asks.

Dean pulls his cloak from his shoulders to stuff it in the saddlebag.

“After so many sunsets…” he trails off, looking wistfully to the sky. “Take care of Lordhawke,” he instructs, and pats Impala’s side to set her going. Sam trots carefully towards the inn.

“Tell him,” Dean begins the thought as Sam rides away, though the boy stops and turns back, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Tell him,” Dean begins again. “Tell him I love him.”

Sam smiles and nods, and rides away from the knight. Dean watches until they’re out of view, but whips around at the sound of a branch cracking under a horse’s hoof. He watches from the bushes as a hooded rider passes on the road, leading a second horse behind them. Only when the figure disappears around the bend does he leave, pushing into the thickness of the woods.

* * *

The rain comes down heavily, pattering onto the straw roof of the barn. He’s actually paid for lodging this time, Sam thinks proudly, and sets down his things carefully. The hawk sits on a post, shaking out its wings every so often.

“Are you hungry?” Sam asks the hawk. It lets out a soft cry. “Can you understand me, Lordhawke?”

If the bird understands it makes no sign of it. Sam lets out a soft laugh.

“It used to be my favourite meal – hawk. I’ve eaten hundreds of them, used to kill one every night.”

The hawk doesn’t respond, just fixes Sam with a discerning blue eye.

“Serves me right for getting involved in this nightmare,” he hesitates. “Nightmare? Daymare?” he isn’t sure what he should call it. “And this whole ‘day without a night, night without a day’ business, what does that mean?” he shakes his head. “Makes as much sense as the rest of it I guess.”

The hawk cries softly, and Sam looks to the window. The last rays of sun stretch out desperately.

“Sunset, I’ll wait outside,” he says to the hawk, though as he moves away he realizes he’s left no clothes for Castiel to wear, and moves back to the hawk. “Just, wait for a moment.”

He dashes outside, trying futilely to cover his hair from the pouring rain. It’s useless, but he makes it to the inn, where he talks to the innkeeper briefly. The man hands him a bundle of lost clothes, and Sam thanks the man profusely, before stuffing the clothes into his shirt in the hopes of protecting them from the rain.

He runs back into the rain, back to the barn. He bursts through the door to find the hawk waiting patiently, and he sets down the clothes beside it.

“Can’t vouch for the fit,” he apologises as he picks out some dry clothes for himself. “Take your time, sir,” he says, and darts outside to change, shutting the door behind him before ducking under the roof of the barn.

A few minutes later he’s changed into the dry clothes, and has his arms wrapped around his middle. He glances at the door.

“Sir? My lord?” he knocks. “I’m coming in.”

He opens the door, and is happy to see the hawk gone from its post.

“Sir?” he calls into the barn. Straw stirs as he enters, and he moves to the stall. “Sir?”

Castiel emerges from the stall, pulling a shirt over his head. The pants are slightly too big, the shirt too long, but they look warm and dry, and Castiel smiles to see him.

“It’s me sir, remember?” Sam asks, and Castiel smiles.

“Of course, my savior,” he smiles, but pauses to look to the window. “How is he?” the dark haired man asks, and Sam tilts his head slightly.

“Alive, like you. Full of hope, like you,” Castiel smiles at that as he straightens his shirt. “He left you in my charge.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Did he?”

Sam nods.

“He said, ‘tell him that we speak as one, and he will listen to you as he does to me,’” Sam fabricates. Castiel smiles slightly.

“Really?”

Sam raises his hand to cross himself.

“I swear-“

“-You don’t have to swear,” he stops the boy. The dark haired man turns to the horse. “Good evening Impala.” He rubs the horse’s snout gently, beautifully, and Sam finds himself smiling at the man’s gentility. Sam had a brother, once, though he was nothing like Castiel; rash, loud, pushing him and teasing him. He doesn’t remember his brother; he died when Sam was only four. The flu he was told. His brother would be twenty-six today.

“He’s taking us back to Heaven, isn’t he?” Castiel asks, and Sam nods to the man’s direct look. Castiel sighs slightly at the revelation, and nods, and pats Impala one last time before moving to stand before Sam. “Well, what are your instructions for this evening?” he asks with a slight smile.

Sam raises an eyebrow and grins.

“I instruct you to sit by a warm fire, drink a cup of sweet wine, and to listen to good music cheerfully played,” he pauses before adding, “Maybe even dance.”

Castiel grins at that, a smile that lights up his eyes and creates lines around them that are beautiful.

“Shall we dance then, Sam?” he asks as music comes echoing from the tavern. Sam nods and grips Castiel’s arm, dragging him into a dance.

He spins Castiel around, counting off beat to the music but smiling nonetheless. They cross their arms over the others shoulders and move forward four paces, then back four paces, and repeat. Spin, forward, back.

They lock elbows and spin around too many times, making the both of them dizzy, and the two of them break apart with a laugh, Castiel’s hand on his stomach as he shakes with laughter.

“It has been a long time since I have danced,” Castiel explains as he straightens. “I’ll take that cup of wine now,” he says, and Sam nods with a grin.

There’s no wine in the stable, but the inn just across the road is loud with the sound of drinking, and so Sam pulls Dean’s cloak from where he’d laid it out. With it he reveals Dean’s sword, glimmering in the soft light.

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Are you my protector too then?” Castiel asks with a slight smile as Sam pulls the sword to his chest and drapes the cloak over the two of them.

“Actually, the truth is he’d kill me if I lost it,” he confesses, and Castiel laughs as he opens the door to the stable.

The cloak obscures their view, and Sam hadn’t expected to encounter any obstacles, so when they bump into something immediately the two of them are surprised.

Sam lifts the cloak from their field of vision, and Castiel looks up to see wolf.

A wolf’s pelt, draped over a horse’s back, still fresh and bloody. The fur is brown, dappled in places, and Castiel lets out a horrified yell, covering his mouth in panic.

Sam knows it’s not Dean, the fur too dull in places, but Castiel panics, reaching for the pelt.

“Castiel,” he tried to reassure the man. “Castiel!”

“Castiel?” the rider on the horse repeats him, and Sam glances up to see a beautiful red haired woman astride the horse. Her mouth curves upwards at the sight of Castiel; his smooth skin, bright eyes, and she laughs lightly. “Castiel,” she says again.

“Castiel get inside,” Sam instructs, holding Dean’s sword out. Castiel shakes his head, but Sam pushes him back into the stable. He now turns his attention to the woman, weapons tucked into her belt, her boots, furs draped across her back.

“If you go near him, lay one hand on him, you’ll find it on the ground next to your head,” he growls, holding the sword steady as he points it at her. “Ride on!”

The woman laughs, dark and dank in its sound.

“Careful big boy, you’re frightening me,” she teases, eyes alight with dark delight.

“You deaf?” Sam demands roughly. “Ride on!”

The woman laughs again, but kicks her horse to spur it on, carrying off the pelt that is not Dean with it.

“Turn around and you’re dead!” he calls after her. Only when her form disappears into the night does he drop the sword, and turn to the stable door.

“Castiel,” he begins, but is shocked when Impala gallops from the stables, a dark haired man in a too large shirt on her back. “Castiel!” he calls after him, but it’s too late, the man too far down the path to stop. He slumps against the wall, panic gripping his chest.

“He’ll kill me,” he thinks of Dean waking in the morning to find Castiel gone. “He’ll kill me.”

* * *

Castiel’s heartbeat thunders heavily in his ears, Impala slowed to a trot as they make their way through the dark woods. Castiel hears a wolf howl, but it’s not Dean, and so he keeps moving, pulling a knife from his pocket.

He dismounts Impala when he hears nothing, the silence suspicious, loud almost.

He pads silently through the woods, feet bare, and doesn’t even notice when he passes a wolf trap, missing the jaws of the contraption by centimeters.

He hears the click of a trap being set, and makes his way towards the sound. As he passes a tree he doesn’t notice the red haired woman step from behind it, watching him.

A wolf cries, and Castiel whips around as traps snap shut, empty. He knows he’s being toyed with, and growls to the night

“Show yourself, coward!”

He listens for movement, and his heart stops at the sound a trap shutting, a wolf’s dying cry. He races to the sound, blood rushing in his ears. He stops short at the sight of the red haired woman, crouched over the trap, inspecting the wolf, taking the dead thing from the trap and resetting the iron jaws.

“Beautiful,” he hears the woman purr, and Castiel holds his knife up in absolute rage.

But a bark behind him makes him turn around, and the wolf standing before him, golden brown fur and green eyes, can only be his.

“Dean,” he breathes the name, relief and fear mingling.

The red haired woman stands up at the sight of him, eyes widening. He is a beautiful wolf, huge and imposing, fur golden, speckled with colour even in the dark.

“A brown wolf,” the red head muses, and reaches for a hatchet to throw. Castiel sees her move for it, and lunges at her, pushing her to the ground.

There’s a snap, and a gurgling scream that comes from her throat as the jaws of the trap snap around her head, locking her in place, cutting into her neck. She strains, trying to force the trap apart, her last sight of the dead wolf in front of her. She struggles and strains with the trap, and then is still.

The wolf runs away, into the dark woods, leaving Castiel with the dead body of a wolf and the woman, exhausted as Sam arrives panting to the scene, Dean’s sword in hand.

* * *

 


	9. The Morning

The shot of the crossbow rings out across the lake, and Dean lunges forward into the river to grab the fish. A fire crackles by the bank, and Dean trudges up to where Sam sleeps on a felled tree.

He pulls the sleeping boy to the fire, his tall frame shaking slightly from the cold of the open air.

He sets the boy down by the fire, where the fish cooks over the fire. Sam stirs in his sleep and awakens.

“Morning,” Dean says happily.

“Morning,” Sam mumbles as he rubs sleepiness from his eyes.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Dean says, “I got breakfast.”

Sam groans.

“What a night,” he says under his breath. Dean glances at him.

“What happened?”

Sam decides to spare him the details.

“Oh,” Sam says. “Nothing I couldn’t take care of.”

The hawk’s cry sounds out from over the hills, from the trees, and the two of them look up as the hawk comes flying in, wings spread. Dean raises his arm for the hawk to land, but the hawk doesn’t land on his arm. It flies past his bewildered face, to land on a startled Sam’s arm.

Sam chuckles, nervously.

“Ah,” he stumbles. “Good hawk, nice bird.”

Dean’s gaze is practically burning, jealousy in his eyes.

Sam swallows thickly.

“Go on, go to your master, go on Lordhawke.”

Dean regards Sam suspiciously.

“Last night, tell me about it,” he instructs as Sam runs a hand along the hawk’s back.

Sam shrugs nonchalantly.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he tries to shoo the hawk towards Dean. “We had a bit of trouble at the inn,” he chooses his words carefully.

“You took Castiel to an inn?” he repeats incredulously. Sam shakes his head.

“Well, no, we stayed in a stable,” he shakes his arms slightly, trying to force the bird to go towards Dean. “Fly to your master, fly to the one you love,” he instructs the bird seriously.

“You stayed in a stable?” Dean asks, confusion across his face.

“Well it was well lit and warm, there weren’t any complaints. We talked, we danced. I got us some dry clothes,” Sam recounts.

“You took Castiel out into the open to get clothes?” Dean asks, a spike in his stomach.

Sam shakes his head, sensing Dean’s anger.

“No, I went alone. I left Castiel in the stable,” he exclaims quickly. Dean’s expression doesn’t change.

“You left him alone? When I told you to look after him?” he demands.

“No, no!” Sam insists.

“So did you or didn’t you take Castiel into the open where anyone could have seen him or hurt him?” Dean moves towards Sam, anger bristling in his spine. The hawk cries out, flapping its wings, and Sam holds his arm out to Dean.

“No, no; take him,” he holds the hawk out to Dean, who takes him on his arm.

Sam takes a step back.

“He is wonderful, and he has become my friend. The brother I never had,” he explains to the knight, who watches him carefully. The knight swallows thickly and looks away at Sam’s words.

“I had a brother once,” the knight says sadly. Sam frowns, a memory trying to force itself into his mind. It doesn’t quite make it, and Sam is left frustrated as he speaks.

“But he doesn’t remember you anymore,” he answers, and Dean looks up at him harshly, confused at Sam’s knowledge, but nods. His gaze turns to the hawk.

“He is the only one who knows me, really knows me, and yet I can’t even be with him,” he runs a finger along the hawk’s neck, and Sam softens.

“Truth is all he did was talk about you,” he says with a slight smile, and Dean lets out a breath.

“Every moment you spend with him,” he pauses to touch the hawk’s head. “I envy you,” he looks to Sam. “But you can tell me, everything he said, but I warn you, I’ll know if you’re making it up.”

Sam turns away from the knight, scratches the back of his neck and puts his hands on his hips.

“He was sad at first, he talked about the day you met, and he cursed it,” he says. These are not words Castiel said, but rather thoughts Sam knew he would have had. Dean’s brow furrows at this, and so Sam adds more to this story. “But then, I saw him remember how happy you were, before Metatron’s curse. His eyes glowed, he glowed.”

He turns to Dean.

“He loves you more than life Dean, he’s had to.”

Dean won’t look to him, but smiles slightly and nods.

“You know hawks and wolves mate for life?” he says, and Sam looks to him with a slight shake of his head. “Metatron didn’t even leave us that. Not even that.”

The bray of a donkey comes from the road, and the two of them look to where Bobby’s cart is parked.

“Going to kill Metatron?” the monk calls out as he approaches, and Dean rolls his eyes and walks away, setting the hawk down on a branch. Bobby frowns as he comes to stand by Sam. “Why won’t you listen to me? In two days you can face Metatron in the cathedral with Castiel by your side, and break this curse!”

Dean doesn’t listen, simply packs his saddlebag.

“I’ll be in Heaven tomorrow, and one way or another this will finally be over,” he announces simply.

Sam looks to Bobby, and then to Dean.

“One day, it can’t make that much of a difference,” he offers, trying to convince the knight. Dean looks to him incredulously.

“You too now?” he says. “I told you not to mention it again, you can stay here with this old drunk.”

Sam shakes his head.

“I’m coming with, you won’t get into the cathedral without me,” he reasons.

Dean shakes his head.

“I’ll get in, without your help.”

Dean stalks away from them, leaving the monk and the boy standing there. Bobby slaps Sam’s shoulder.

“You tried Sam, thank you for that, for standing for the truth,” the monk says gratefully as he puts an arm around Sam’s shoulder.

Sam lets out a soft laugh.

“I should’ve known better. The best moments of my life have been when I’m lying.”

* * *

 


	10. The Ice

An owl hoots in the soft blue of the early evening. Somewhere in the depth of the trees a wolf stalks, the moon sending shadows across its form against the mountains.

Castiel sits by a fire, tying strips of fabric around his ankles. These will keep him steady on the snowy ground.

Sam approaches from the sparse woods, towards the warmth of the fire and the form of the dark haired man. Castiel looks up from his work at the ties as Sam gets closer, and smiles slightly. 

“Hello Sam,” he greets as he pulls the fabric tighter. He turns to the belongings around him and begins to search through them. “Where did I put my knife, I swear I was holding it a moment ago.”

Sam takes a breath, steels himself, and speaks.

“Castiel this might be our last night together,” he says succinctly, trying to hide the trepidation in his spine. Castiel stops his search for his knife and turns back to Sam, mouth slightly open in confusion.

“Why?” he asks.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I believed, I mean really believed,” Sam begins to explain. Castiel lets out a noise of frustration and turns back to his search for the knife.

“Really believed what Sam?” he asks tiredly.

“I think we can break the curse.”

This stops Castiel’s movements, his spine stiff and face held in a careful expression as he listens to Sam speak.

“We have a plan,” Sam continues, and Castiel looks to him now.

“You and Dean?” he asks, though Sam knows that Castiel already knows the answer to the question. He shakes his head anyway.

“No…” he trails off as the sound of another’s footsteps approach him from behind, and Bobby comes to stand beside him.

Castiel looks between the two of them, apprehension written across his features as he takes in the monk and the thief standing silhouetted against the pale light on the mountains.

Above them the moon climbs higher into the night sky, its backdrop turning from the pale grey to a deep, crystalline blue spotted with stars that shine out from above the snowy peaks.

* * *

“Stop punching me in the kidney you bloody idjit,” Bobby grumbles from beside Sam as the boy raises Dean’s sword for another jab into the dirt of their hole. It reaches their waists now, the snow hardened ground loosened by the repetitive motion of their makeshift shovels. Sam is thankful that Dean isn’t around to see him using his precious sword to loosen the dirt; the knight would probably lose his mind to see it being used for such a degrading task.

Bobby pushes Sam out of the way, the thief slumping against the edge of their hole, Dean’s sword clattering beside him. He lets out a breath of frustration.

“Bobby,” he begins, and the monk glances at him as he grabs another handful of dirt from the bottom of the hole. “This hole isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

Bobby rolls his eyes and throws the dirt into the steadily growing pile beside the hole.

“Well let’s hope it’s big enough for the wolf,” he mumbles.

Sam takes Dean’s sword again and starts up his rhythmic movement.

Castiel, who sits watching from the snowy ground above the hole, stands now, and moves in the direction of a wolf’s howl. He tightens the cloak pulled around his shoulders, glancing back at the two men in the hole as Sam’s elbow jabs into Bobby’s side and the monk lets out a noise of pain.

He stops at the base of a snowy hill leading up to the rocky mountains, arms folded, and listens to the soft whistle of the wind. His head whips around as Bobby lets out an elongated yell of disgruntlement, Sam trying to hoist him out of the hole.

“What are you trying to pull boy?” Bobby demands as Sam gives up trying to push the heavier man out of the hole and stands straight.

“When you kneel before the altar,” he begins, “how do you get up again?”

Bobby fixes him with a burning glare.

“You sacrilegious idjit!” he growls. “Push, damn it!”

Sam tries again, taking Bobby’s foot in his hand and trying to heave the man out of the hole, now as high as their shoulders. The progress is slow, Bobby too heavy for Sam’s thin frame.

Bobby freezes as the howl of a wolf echoes from across the mountain ridge.

“He’s coming,” he says softly, to himself, then again for Sam to hear. “He’s coming!”

Sam looks up to the sky as the howl echoes, and in one swift movement he drops Bobby’s foot and uses Bobby’s shoulders as points from which to leverage himself from the hole.

He dashes over to where Castiel stands, and touches the man’s shoulder gently.

“Sir, sir!” he says urgently as Castiel breaks from his state of concentration and whips around to face him. “We’re just covering the trap,” he explains, and Castiel nods tensely.

“All right,” he says, breath forming puffs of vapor in the cold air. “Hurry.”

He looks to the sky, already the dark blue of the night turning a softer, warmer blue where it touches the peaks of the mountainous hills. The wolf howls again, closer now, and Castiel watches the hills carefully.

The wolf appears from a distance, emerging from behind the snow covered rocks. Its footfalls are soft and steady on the snowy ground, and Castiel moves towards it, watching with breath heavy in his chest.

Sam and Bobby lie on the frozen ground, watching the wolf approach the dark haired man. Sam’s breath is short and sharp, and he points to the wolf.

“He’s coming across the ice,” he says to Bobby, the anticipation of their plan enough to block out the feeling of the sharp cold snow against his body.

The wolf gets closer still, and as it approaches Castiel starts to move towards it, longing in his chest driving him forward. As he takes a step there is a crunching noise, and a sharp pain goes through him as the ice breaks beneath the wolf, sending him into the cold, deadly water below.

Castiel lets out an empty gasp of shock as the wolf struggles to get back onto the ice, letting out low howls of desperation, and Castiel moves faster now, his footsteps heavier and clumsier.

One step on the ice breaks beneath him and he lets out a cry as he regains balance on the thicker ice, and gets onto his knees and then belly so as to crawl desperately towards where the wolf scrambles for purchase on the ice.

Sam gets to his feet and moves to Castiel, grabbing Dean’s sword as he does. Around the hilt a rope is tied, and Sam lets out the slack as he moves hurriedly towards Castiel.

“Wait, sir!” he calls out to Castiel, panic flaring up in his chest as the ice crunches underneath him.

“Sam, help me!” Castiel calls out to him as he works his way across the ice, the sharp crystals cutting into his bare palms.

Sam slows at the edge of the frozen lake, getting low.

“The ice will break!” Bobby calls out from behind him. “You have to lie down!”

Out on the ice the wolf whines as it paddles desperately in the water, snout flat against the ice as it pushes for the surface, trying to force itself onto the safety of the ice. His paws struggle to grip onto the slippery surface, and Castiel calls out to Sam.

“He can’t get out!”

Sam moves as quickly as possible, letting out a gasp of fright as the ice creaks beneath his arm. He quickly moves his arm to a different position and keeps moving.

“Wait!” he calls out to Castiel, Bobby far behind them also lying against the ice, trying futilely to help.

Out on the ice Castiel approaches the wolf, the beast holding onto the ice with its two front paws, most of its body submerged in the freezing water. It whines as Castiel gets closer.

“Wait sir!” Sam calls out, afraid for Castiel’s safety as he gets closer and closer to the wolf.

Castiel reaches the wolf and quickly wraps his arms around the wolf’s neck, trying to pull him from the water. He quickly realizes that the wolf is too heavy, and turns to Sam.

“I can’t- Sam, hurry!” he calls out desperately. Sam carefully gets to his knees and raises Dean’s sword.

“I’m coming!” he calls back as he plunges it into the ice. He pulls the rope out as he keeps crawling to Castiel and the wolf.

“He’s too heavy!” Castiel yells, the weight of the wolf painful in his shoulders and arms.

Bobby approaches from behind Sam, crawling to the sword now.

“Hurry, we’ll lose him!” the monk calls to Sam as the boy reaches the hole in the ice, where Castiel still has his arms around the wolf’s neck, trying to keep the beast above the water.

“He’s slipping!” Castiel yells as he tries futilely to pull the wolf up again. His grip slips on the wolf’s neck and suddenly the beast is in the water again, Castiel’s reach useless.

Bobby reaches where the sword is anchored in the ice and grips it tightly as Sam pushes himself into the water behind the wolf.

“Hold him!” he tells Castiel as he wraps his arms around the wolf’s middle, trying to tie the rope around the creature.

“Be careful!” Bobby yells out as Sam’s head dips below the water, the cold making him gasp for air as it reaches into his skin, like knives in his bones sending his muscles into deep pain. He twists in the water, the wolf still struggling to get out, and falls beneath it.

“No!” Castiel yells out as the wolf’s pushes force it out into the water, away from his reach.

Sam gasps for air as the wolf struggles against him, trying to use the boy as a means of escape from the water.

“Castiel, no!” Sam yells out as Castiel tries to reach for the wolf, its claws sharp on his skin as he tries to tie the rope around the thrashing beast. Sam manages to hit his back against the edge of the pool of water, the wolf against his chest.

“No, Sam!” Castiel says as the wolf scrambles against Sam’s chest. The wolf is moving too much though, its movements clumsy and desperate, and they both fall under the water again. Sam grits his teeth against the pain of the cold and forces the wolf against the edge of the pool, helping its front paw onto the ice as he hoists it out of the water.

Castiel reaches for the wolf as it pulls itself from the water, and wraps his arms around the wolf’s body as it reaches dry land.

“It’s all right,” he says to the wolf, pressing his face against its fur.

Sam is still in the water, gasping for air as the cold overwhelms his senses. The rope floats in the water, and he grabs onto this now, using what little strength he has left to pull himself from the cold water.

He coughs as the water enters his mouth, grabbing at the ice to pull his shaking limbs out.

“Hold on,” Bobby calls to him, grabbing the end of the rope to pull Sam out. “Hold on Sam!”

Slowly they manage to hoist the thief from the water, despite the wet coughs his lungs force out. Soon his body is out of the water, and he collapses on the ice, the cold water stilling behind him.

The wolf lies beside Castiel on the ice, its eyes closed as it breathes, the cold slowly leaving its body. Castiel’s hand rests on its neck as Bobby pulls himself over to them. Castiel’s breathing slows as Bobby comes to them, and he looks up at the monk.

“We must live,” he says to Bobby. “As humans.”

Bobby looks to the dark haired man.

“Our lives are in your hands now,” he finishes, his blue eyes shining with frozen tears as he reaches a hand over to where Sam lies, to touch his back.

* * *

 


	11. The Meeting

The sky turns a pale orange as the clouds come over the dark mountains. The horizon is a purple that defies all logic, a mixture of the deep blue of night and golden brightness of the day.

There is still shadow in the hole Sam and Bobby dug, the branches of the pine trees used to cover the trap now underneath where the wolf lies at Castiel’s side, its brown fur soft beneath the man’s fingers. A black cloak covers the wolf, warming it from the cold of the night.

The snow around them turns from the blue of night to the white of the day as the darkness fades from the sky.

The dark haired man wears his cloak covering his shoulders and head. The wolf is sleeping, chest rising and falling softly, and Castiel lets his fingers rest in the fur.

Sam approaches carefully, his own frame draped in a cloak and scarf to guard him against the cold. His mouth is open in hopeful anticipation, the sunlight illuminating the mountains behind him in brilliant gold.

He looks over the edge of the hole, to where the man and the wolf lie.

Castiel watches the sky, his fingers stroking the wolf gently. The wolf lies still and calm, though its eyes are open, the most pure shade of green possible. Castiel runs his hand over the golden brown fur of the wolf, his skin stark against the brown of the fur. It’s when he sees the slightest glimpse of gold on his knuckles that his breath catches, and he quickly moves his fingers from the light, eyes fixated on his hand as he drags it from the wolf and back to him.

Sam watches, his breathing quick as Castiel sits up.

When Castiel looks to the east he sees it, creeping up from the horizon, just a lining of gold against the darkness of the mountain silhouette. The snow surrounding the hole is illuminated by the sun, the light casting shimmering gold highlights against the blue shade. The sun glints on the hilt of the sword.

Castiel raises his hand into the light, the hood sheltering his face as he lets the light shine on his fingers. He looks back to the wolf.

The light casts the wolf in gold, setting the brown of its fur on fire, glowing brilliantly in the light.

Castiel holds his breath, and lets out a soft gasp when the transformation begins. Fur disappears, skin revealed, and Castiel moves his hand to cover his mouth, tears shining in his blue eyes.

The wolf slowly disappears, replaced by a bare, tanned back and golden brown hair.

Dean opens his eyes, still wolf like in their colour, the pupils just too wide.

Sam startles at the sight and takes a step back as Dean moves slightly, letting go of the traces of the wolf in his mind. Though he remembers nothing of the previous night he feels the presence, behind him, the scent of storms and lightning and rain.

He sits up, wolfish senses bristling, and turns around.

Tears glisten in Castiel’s eyes, those blue, blue eyes that he has not seen in years. His face the same, beautiful. Still so, so beautiful. Castiel breathes at the sight of his lover’s golden face, freckled and glowing in the light of the rising sun, his eyes returning to normal, but still their same green, his hand trembling as he watches Dean.

The sun climbs higher in the sky.

They cannot move, cannot speak, too enraptured by the sight of the one they love, though their fingers reach out for each other, trembling only slightly as the sun glints on their skin.

Sam’s breathing comes in trembling gasps as he watches them, watches an inch of distance turn to a centimeter, to a millimeter.

But before they can touch there is a flash, and the hawk spreads its wings.

Tears fall from Sam’s eyes, and Dean can only curl his fingers inwards in pain as the hawk takes flight.

As it flies away from the pit, away from him, Dean lets out a roar, wolfish in its primal pain.

Sam dashes away from the hole, back to Bobby’s cart, leaving the man to watch the hawk fly into the morning sky.

* * *

Dean moves around Bobby’s cart, pulling his cloak over his shoulders as he does. He strides across the snowy ground to where Sam and Bobby sit, the hawk calm as it sits on a felled branch stuck into the pile of dirt.

“Tell me one thing,” the knight says as he stops before the pair. “Where is my sword?”

The man is tense, his shoulders straight and expression careful as he speaks.

Sam looks Dean in the eyes and speaks.

“It’s gone. It fell through the ice last night crossing a river,” he says calmly. Dean bristles and takes a step towards the pair.

“Damn it! That sword was the last piece of honour I had!” he says harshly.

Sam grits his teeth.

“You don’t need your mission of honour now! The gem you wanted to put in the sword has become nothing except a symbol for your meaningless death!” he says as Dean walks away from him, past the nearby pit. He pauses to glance at the hole for a moment, but keeps moving, coming to a stop with his back to Sam and Bobby as he looks out to the mountains. Sam gets to his knees as he keeps speaking. “But there’s a chance for life now, a new life with him!”

Sam pulls his cloak from his shoulders, the sun warming him.

Dean turns back to the thief and moves back towards him.

“I needed that sword to kill Metatron,” he growls as he gets closer to Sam, stature tense with confrontation. Bobby gets to his feet.

“Listen to him Dean!” the monk says as Dean grabs Sam by the shirt.

“Damn you!” the knight snarls as he pushes Sam down the slight incline, the boy’s hands gripping his biceps.

“Go ahead!” Sam exclaims, passion and anger making him bold. “Kill yourself, kill him too! You never cared about him as much as yourself anyway!”

Dean pushes the boy to the ground, and Sam lets out a cry of pain as his side hits the hard snowy ground.

The fall pushes his shirt aside just slightly, but it’s enough to make Dean falter at the sight of long, red scratches down Sam’s chest. There are many of them, parallel down the expanse of Sam’s skin, and the knight frowns at the sight and moves closer, confusion and fear in the fold of his brows. Sam winces at the pain and at Dean’s revelation. He hadn’t intended to let the man know what had happened.

“What is that?” Dean asks as he gestures to Sam’s chest, looking to Bobby for answers.

The monk has no compassion for him as he regards him.

“That happened last night,” he growls. “When he saved your life.”

Dean is still now, looking to Bobby carefully, before his gaze moves back to Sam, still lying on the ground.

“Forgive me,” he finally says, and offers the boy a steady hand to pull him to his feet. Sam winces, but smiles as he lets out a shaky laugh, and Dean smiles too as he puts a hand to the back of Sam’s neck and pulls the boy to him. “I’ll show you idiots how to cage a wolf,” he says with a slight laugh, and Bobby smiles.

* * *

 


	12. The Confrontation

The cart approaches Heaven in the darkness of the night. Torches light the crenellations, glinting off the moat. Bobby sits at the reigns, Castiel beside him, his hood covering his face.

Bobby stops the cart before they reach the bridge, and Sam slips out from the cart, hiding from the people standing by the water.

“Remember,” Bobby breathes to Sam. “The groove inside the north wall.”

Sam nods as the cart pulls off again, but dashes up to where Bobby and Castiel sit to stop the cart. Bobby pulls on the reins and looks to Sam.

“Bobby, just… in case something happens. I have to know. Dean, is he my…” he trails off, unable to pull the memory that demands to be remembered into his conscious thought. The monk’s expression doesn’t change.

“Just do your job,” the monk says simply. “Do that and I won’t need to tell you anything.”

Bobby spurs his donkey into movement again, and Sam pats Impala as she trots past, hitched to the back of the cart.

“Right,” he says to himself. “The groove inside the north wall.”

The guards call for the gate to be opened, two leading the cart through.

Sam climbs over the brick wall by the moat, ready to lower himself into the water, but pauses and looks to the sky.

“We’ve come full circle, God,” he says casually. “I hope there’s some greater meaning in all of this,” he looks down to the murky water with a twist of his mouth. “Otherwise you’re the one who’s going to look like a fool.”

He lowers himself into the water as soundlessly as possible as Bobby and the cart reach the inner gates of Heaven.

A guard holds a hand up to stop the cart and approaches them.

“What have you got here, holy father?” he asks as he comes up to the cart, touching the structure curiously.

“A gift, for His Grace Metatron. From the people of my parish,” he explains casually as the guard moves around the cart. He stops at the cage in which the wolf stands and pulls the cover from it, taking a step back as the beast growls. “A pelt for his wall,” Bobby adds.

The guard unsheathes his sword at the sight of the wolf.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of killing a wolf before,” he muses as he raises his sword to a gap in the cage, and Castiel turns with panicked eyes to Bobby. The monk stammers for a moment before he turns back to guard.

“How strange, that’s exactly what Metatron said,” he says as the guard starts to draw his sword back in preparation of stabbing it through the cage. He falters at Bobby’s words and turns to look at the monk now. Bobby nods and smiles. “I’m sure he will understand you taking that pleasure from him, he’s the forgiving sort.”

The wolf growls at the guard through the cage, and the guard thinks for a moment, before sliding his sword back into its sheath.

“Very well, go on.”

Bobby nods as the guard pulls the cover back over the cage.

“You're a smart man my son,” he says sagely as the guard waves them through, the gates opening before the cart.

Castiel glances over at Bobby as they ride through, and touches the monk’s hand gratefully.

* * *

The bells ring out as the morning dawns.

Bartholomew’s shoes make a soft noise on the stone floor as he walks down the long corridor to Metatron’s chambers.

He reaches the room to find Metatron standing, a group of young priests helping him into his robes.

“Your Grace?” Bartholomew says as he comes to stand in the room, and Metatron turns to him with a sharp look.

“We will start when _I_ am ready,” he says harshly as a young priest straightens the sleeve of his robe.

* * *

Deep beneath Heaven the water rushes through a grate, the gap in it just the right size for a thin boy to squeeze through.

Sam grabs onto the grate, his breath tight in his chest, and pulls himself through the gap for the second time in his life. He pulls himself through the water with long strokes, and gasps at the air as he surfaces in the sewers.

* * *

The procession through the streets of Heaven is somber, led by two guards with swords held aloft. White robed priests swing incense as they sing, emerging into a square surrounded by the red robes of Metatron’s guards. They sit astride horses and watch as the march goes past.

Gadreel rides beside Metatron’s procession, in full armour, the white of his cloak matching that of the Metatron’s robes.

* * *

Sam lets out heaving gasps of air as he hoists himself from the water of the sewers and onto the rungs of the rusted ladder leading upwards.

Water drips from his sopping clothes as he starts to climb.

* * *

Thunder rumbles from a distance out across the mountain ranges, the sky turning grey and cloudy.

Bobby moves to where the cart is hidden, Dean standing in black armor beside the black hawk.

“It should be soon, when the clouds break,” he says to the knight, trying not to panic. Unless the clouds break there can be no eclipse, and he will not allow Dean to succumb to hopelessness.

The knight’s expression is stony as he looks to the monk.

“It’s day,” he says simply. “Like it was yesterday. Like it will be tomorrow.”

The hawk cries out as Dean offers it a piece of raw meat, which it takes in it beak as Dean extends his arm towards it, and climbs onto Dean’s hand.

* * *

The procession continues through the streets, streams of white robes walking along the stone pathways, incense clouding them.

Metatron walks in full dress beneath a canopy held aloft.

Red-cloaked soldiers stand guard along the roads, hands on the hilts of their swords.

* * *

Sam reaches the grate, a knife in his mouth.

He lets out a final grunt as he looks up to the room above, the sound of singing carrying through as he sees a stained glass window; a larger gold circle surrounded by twelve evenly spaced smaller stars. The room is lit in the gold of the glass, illuminating high columns and ceilings.

Water drips down Sam’s face as he twists the knife at the points holding the grate in place, and raises his palm to wipe the water from his eyes as the procession reaches the cathedral. Metatron is calm and stone-faced, followed by Bartholomew and the rest of the marchers. Gadreel rides in the street alongside him, moving to secure his horse and dismount.

The streets are lined with the people of Heaven, and they watch as Metatron moves to the doors of the cathedral.

Two guards in chainmail move to open the doors, removing the barricades keeping them closed.

Sam looks up from his work on the grate at the sound, faltering in his movements.

As Metatron enters the Moose manages to loosen the gate, and begins lifting it. People stand around the grate, all looking up to where the Bishop enters. Sam glances up as his head peeks above the grate and lets out a soft noise of surprise at the sight of the Bishop entering the room.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says under his breath as he lowers the grate and himself back into it.

The singing continues as the group enters the cathedral, the marchers splitting into two lines, Metatron at the centre of them as they move to the front of the cathedral.

Someone comes to stand on top of the grate, and Sam lets out a breath of frustration.

The people in the cathedral watch as Metatron moves to the front of the cathedral.

Sam glances up at the man standing on the grate, trying to think of a way to get him to move, and realizes that he’s holding a knife.

He raises the knife to the man’s foot and jabs it upwards. He misses the man’s foot, only making him annoyed, and Bartholomew glances down at the grate with an annoyed shake of his foot.

Sam tries again, and this time Bartholomew stamps his foot down on the grate.

Sam tries one more time and manages to jab the tip of the knife into Bartholomew’s foot, and the man lets out a noise of surprise at the sudden prick of pain and moves away from the grate.

Sam quickly presses himself into the shadows as Bartholomew and the man beside him look down at the grate.

“What’s the matter?” the man asks.

“Rats!” Bartholomew exclaims softly. The other man raises his eyebrows.

“Rats? Here?”

Bartholomew takes the cane he holds and jabs it through the grill of the grate, and Sam pushes himself against the wall of the tunnel, praying the cane doesn’t jab into his skull or the back of his neck.

Bartholomew stops his movements and the other man shakes his head.

“Scandalous.”

Sam holds his breath as Bartholomew moves away from the grate, and waits a moment before he pulls himself from the grate. Everyone is looking to Metatron as he comes to stand on the dais, and he quickly darts behind a column to where a number of white robes hang. He tucks his knife into his belt as the people in the cathedral begin to chant.

The guards close the doors as the last of the marchers enter.

Metatron comes to stand behind the altar as Sam moves from behind the column, now clothed in the same white robe as the marchers, and watches as the guards lock the barriers in place on the door.

* * *

Outside Dean looks to the sky, impatience in the sharpness of his shoulders. The hawk sits on his arm, a hood covering its eyes as Dean moves to Bobby.

“It’s too late,” he says quickly. “The mass will be over soon. I can’t wait for you now. If Sam’s done his job I can kill Metatron. Now or never.”

Bobby frowns.

“No, Dean, you’ll never have this chance again.”

Dean smiles slightly, though there is no mirth in it.

“You’re right.”

He looks down to the hawk on his arm as he pulls something from his pack.

“If the service ends peacefully then the bells will ring, and you’ll know I failed,” he explains to Bobby, who shakes his head slightly and gestures to the hawk.

“But, Castiel,” he says sadly, and Dean looks down. His face flickers with sadness for a moment, before he disguises it with his carefully serious expression.

“Please,” he says. “Take his life.”

Bobby looks to Dean’s other hand to see the man offering him a small knife.

“Quick and painless,” the solider continues, his expression breaking at the thought.

“I can’t do that,” Bobby answers sadly.

“Yes you can!” Dean says, his words turning desperate. “I’m begging you Bobby. Please. You can’t leave him with a half-life like this, it’s not what he wants.”

Bobby looks away.

“I couldn’t do it,” he says finally.

Dean swallows, turning serious.

“Have you ever though that maybe _this_ is what God wanted?” he asks the man, and Bobby looks to Dean with an open expression, defeated by the man’s simple, desperate plea.

* * *

In the cathedral Sam makes his way to the doors, the rest of the people distracted as Metatron moves at the front of the cathedral. He stands before the locks on the doors, his knife held carefully to the keyhole.

* * *

Dean sits astride Impala in full armour, his visor raised as he holds a sword carefully. He looks around one last time, at the place that was once his home, before kicking Impala into movement and riding the path to the cathedral.

Impala’s hooves kick up dust as he rides.

* * *

Bobby stands with his back leaning against the wall, the hooded hawk on his arm and tears in his eyes as he looks to the sky. He closes his eyes as he leans his head against the wall.

* * *

Dean rides up the cobblestone roads, passing the people of Heaven. They look to him with wide eyes, the knight in black.

An entire squad of Metatron’s guard surround the square, and Dean comes to a stop before their leader.

“I was once your Captain, and if it’s God’s grace I will be again. I ask you to let me pass,” he addresses the man, Victor.

Victor rides his horse alongside Dean’s and comes to a stop beside him.

“Captain Winchester,” he says. “I have my orders.”

He begins to pull his sword from where it is sheathed only for Dean to knock it from his grasp immediately. Dean points his own sword to Victor’s neck, and the man slowly backs away, defeated.

Dean knocks his visor down and begins to ride forward, the red-cloaked guards parting to let him through.

* * *

Sam fumbles with his knife in the keyhole, trying desperately to unlock the doors. This is what he was sent to do, this is what he must do, but the lock is old and heavy, and his knife just too small.

“Come on,” he breathes to himself, a sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. “Open.”

He says that loudly enough that the guards hear him, and turn to see the boy in the white robe trying to open the door.

They glance at each other, before the one raises his sword and begins to move towards Sam.

“Come on,” Sam says, and glances back to see the guard approaching. He turns back to the lock and tries harder still to unlock it. “Come on, come on!”

He looks back again quickly at the guard coming towards him and then looks at the lock, pushing his hand against the knife to force the tumbler up.

As the guard gets closer Sam hears the lock move, and pulls the latch from its place. He raises the barriers, and opens the latch as the guard raises his sword to swing at him.

Before the man can cut him down the doors burst open, and Sam holds onto the door as it crashes into the guard. Everyone turns at the sound, watch the knight in black astride a dark horse enter the cathedral.

Dean glances at Sam who nods with a smile and raises his knife, and Dean smiles briefly at the thief, before turning to the man behind the altar who watches him carefully

There is the clip clop of hooves on marble as Dean rides through the cathedral, the people moving aside as he rides. Impala snorts as they move, and rears up as Dean gets closer.

He stops in the centre of the cathedral, and fixes his gaze on Metatron.

There is the sound of another horse’s hooves behind him, and Dean turns to see Gadreel enter the cathedral.

“Winchester,” he says as he unsheathes his sword and discards the scabbard.

Dean turns Impala to face the Captain, and Gadreel lowers his visor. The two horses rear up, and then start to race towards each other; the black knight astride the black horse, the white knight astride the white horse.

When they pass each other they clang their swords together, before they turn their horses and move for another pass. Their swords clash again, the force pushing Gadreel backwards. He sits up straight again when his horse reaches the other end of the cathedral, and turns for yet another pass. His horse moves quickly, but Dean holds his ground, not mobbing far when their swords clash again, instead trying to move the fight towards Metatron.

Their horses climb the steps up towards the altar, the crash of their swords ringing out in the emptiness of the cathedral.

Sam dashes outside, his legs pumping and heart thumping as he runs from the fight.

He falters though, no longer the coward he once was, and stops.

He turns back to the cathedral, to the sound of the swords.

Over and over again Gadreel’s sword meets Dean’s, their horses almost parallel as they thrust and slash at each other, evenly matched.

They ride away from the altar again, Gadreel driving Dean away from Metatron who watches them.

With one clash of their swords Gadreel’s horse is thrown of balance, and the Captain falls to the floor with a cry.

He looks up as Dean rides around him, and quickly climbs atop his horse again.

* * *

Sam reaches Bobby’s cart, his chest heaving for air, and dashes underneath. He sighs with relief at the sight of what he had stowed there earlier.

“Thank you God,” he breathes as he frees the item from its hiding place.

* * *

Dean weaves behind a column, away from Gadreel, and the two meet at the back of the cathedral, where the swing of Dean’s sword sends the Captain reeling from his horse, landing painfully on the stone floor.

Gadreel lets out a snarl as he pulls his helmet from his head.

Dean recoils as the captain throws the helmet, though Gadreel misses the knight, the helmet instead flying to the gold stained glass window, shattering it into pieces and exposing the cathedral to the glare of the sun.

Gadreel pulls Dean from his horse as the knight is distracted, the two men wrangling on the floor for a moment before Dean aims a careful punch to Gadreel’s side, sending the Captain sprawling.

With Gadreel sent crashing away Dean uses the time to pick the sword up from where it had fallen, and starts to pace towards where Metatron stands.

A guard approaches from the side of the cathedral, sword raised though Dean easily meets this slash and aims a kick to the man’s side that sends him to the floor.

Two more guards approach now, though Dean deflects the blows of their swords and uses their movement to push them to the ground.

His focus is singular, his gaze always returning to where Metatron stands, watching him with hatred in his gaze.

Another guard approaches, though they are no match for Dean, and Metatron knows this, watching the knight in black as he fells another and another of his guards.

It is only when Gadreel tackles Dean from behind that he falls, face forward onto the stairs. Gadreel swings his sword at Dean, the knight just managing to stop the blade with his own, their blades ringing out against each other as Gadreel stands above Dean.

Dean manages to kick Gadreel away, the Captain falling to the floor as Dean gets to his feet.

Thunder rumbles outside and Dean looks to the shattered mirror, to the sun, and his mouth opens slightly at the sight; the sun shines through the circular window, bright and gold, but covering the sun, blocking its light is the shadow of the eclipse that begins to crawl across its surface.

Dean’s breath catches as he pulls his helmet from his head, watching the phenomenon.

Metatron too watches, face twitching as Dean speaks.

“A night without a day,” he breathes, green eyes catching the last of the sun’s light. “And a day without a night.”

He looks back at Metatron, who moves from behind the altar to watch the sky, disbelief written across his face.

* * *

Bobby stands in the shade of a building, the hawk on his arm.

His eyes are closed as he prays.

“God, go with him, be with him,” he breathes, voice not faltering.

* * *

 


	13. The Final Confrontation

Dean stands from where he had fallen, eyes fixed on the sun disappearing behind the shadow, and moves down the steps of the cathedral, his sword held in both hands.

Desperation fills him at the sight of Bobby’s prediction come true, panic seeping in at the memory of his final instructions to the monk.

“Bobby!” he calls out futilely. “Wait!”

He wants to run from this place, to stop Bobby from doing what he had ordered him to do, but his pace is stopped by Gadreel, who emerges from the crowd with sword held firmly.

They raise their swords to meet each other, Gadreel trying desperately to catch at Dean, swinging at his middle only to have Dean force their blades upwards and away. He tries to swing the blade down at Dean shoulder but the knight sees this coming, and deflects the blow before quickly surging forward to tackle Gadreel.

The Captain lets out a grunt as he is forced backwards by Dean, and jams the hilt of the blade downwards into the back of Dean’s neck.

The knight lets out a cry of pain and Gadreel kicks him forward. Dean almost falls to the floor but manages to catch his balance just in time.

Gadreel swings his sword down, but it simply clashes against Dean’s armor, giving the knight time to raise his own sword for a swing at Gadreel’s middle. This blow just meets the Captain’s sword, and Gadreel lets out a cry of frustration as he is sent stumbling backwards again.

He moves behind a column as Dean advances, sword held out towards the Captain.

Gadreel makes a mad dash from behind the column, and their swords ring out one last time as they stand before each other.

Dean holds Gadreel’s gaze.

“You’re dead,” he says simply, to which Gadreel smiles and laughs.

The Captain raises his sword and the two clash against each other three more times. Gadreel manages to send Dean stumbling sideways, but the knight simply turns to the Captain and moves forward, sword angled to the Captain.

Gadreel raises his sword with a yell and swings it down, the force sending Dean backwards, his sword almost falling from his grip. Gadreel tries to rush forward, to hit Dean whilst he’s down but the knight recovers too quickly, and blocks Gadreel’s hit easily.

When Gadreel raises his sword for another downward swing Dean grabs him around the waist and pushes him down. Gadreel falls backwards, but a noise above him makes Dean look up, only to see another guard grabbing at the ropes to ring the bell.

Dean pulls a knife from his side and throws it expertly, hitting the man in the side and sending him falling down.

He doesn’t fall onto the balcony though. His grip on the rope is still tight, and he falls from over the balcony, his weight pulling on the rope. The bells don’t ring though.

Gadreel comes from behind Dean, and the knight whips around as Gadreel swings at him, clashing swords over and over again.

Dean doesn’t see another guard come from over the balcony, to the ropes.

Him and Gadreel meet swords too many times, too equally matched. One of Dean’s blows sends Gadreel to one knee, another sending him to the floor.

But he doesn’t see the second guard pull the rope, surely and strongly.

It’s only when he hears the bells ring out that his heart stops.

He moves away from where Gadreel is slumped against a column, looking to the ceiling with fear coursing through his veins.

“Stop!” he calls out futilely to the guard, the man still pulling on the ropes.

The bells ring out through Heaven, all the way to where Bobby must be with the hawk, and Dean’s chest heaves with pain and desperation.

He moves to the doors as the bells toll.

“Bobby,” he breathes. “Please make it quick.”

* * *

Bobby closes his eyes to the sound of the bells and holds the knife tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“God forgive me,” he says to himself.

* * *

Gadreel gets to his feet, watching where Dean stands with his back to him. He holds his blade loosely as Dean turns around, his expression set in stone once more.

Dean paces towards Gadreel, sword raised, and swings it with a yell of passion. He takes on the offensive stance now, swinging at Gadreel’s side, over his head, anything he can to take the man down.

Gadreel meets the blows, and kicks at Dean’s back when one of his blows misses, sending the knight to the floor and the sword spinning away from him.

In the crowd of people watching, a boy in a white robe weaves through them, something concealed beneath his robe.

He comes to a stop by a column, watching the fight with his mouth slightly open.

Dean is down, Gadreel standing above him with his sword held directly at the knight.

Sam quickly pulls Dean’s sword from his robe, not lost to the ice but instead hidden from the knight until the right moment.

Gadreel lets out a yell and swings his sword down, though Dean dodges it and the blade hits the ground. He grabs Gadreel’s arm and kicks at his side, sending Gadreel stumbling away from him as he gets to his feet.

Sam weaves past the people, the columns until he is near Dean, and then slides his sword over to him.

Dean stands, but has no sword, and ducks the swing of Gadreel’s sword.

Sam pushes the hood from his robe as he watches the fight, pushing past a man to grip a column for support.

Dean dodges the swings from Gadreel, but can do nothing without a sword, and cannot move to where his sword lies. Instead he grabs Gadreel’s arm when he next swings his sword and pushes the man to the floor, his sword falling from his grasp.

He moves them to where his sword lies, and pulls Gadreel’s head upwards to aim a punch squarely to his jaw.

He forces the Captain onto his back, only for Gadreel to kick him in the side, sending Dean onto the floor too. The two men fight to be the first on his feet, Gadreel the first one up, and Dean raises a hand in defense as Gadreel aims a kick at his face. He doesn’t move it quickly enough, and he falls back to the floor as his momentum sends Gadreel sprawling too.

Gadreel recovers quickly though, using his hands to push himself upwards as Dean lies on his back, trying to roll onto his front. Gadreel picks his sword up from the floor and looks to where Dean kneels.

He holds his blade loosely in his hand, watching the knight. He walks towards him and stops, blade pointed at Dean. He lowers the blade, pointing it downwards, and advances slowly on the kneeling knight.

Dean moves backwards, away from Gadreel who moves slowly and confidently towards him. Gadreel takes a breath and smiles, and adjusts his downwards grip on his sword.

He raises the sword, prepares to plunge it into Dean’s flesh, and as the blade comes down Dean rolls away, into Gadreel’s feet, then backwards, forcing the sword from the Captain’s grip.

Gadreel tries to grab his sword, but Dean who lies on the floor holds it already, and as Gadreel pitches forward Dean raises the sword.

Gadreel impales himself on his own blade.

Sam winces and looks away.

Metatron swallows thickly and keeps watching.

Gadreel falls to his knees over Dean who lies on the floor, clutching at the blade in his chest. He struggles for breath, and Dean lets him fall to the floor. Gadreel moves for another moment, then is still, and Dean gets to his feet.

He sees where his sword lies and moves to it, and when he recognizes it he looks over to where Sam stands.

Sam watches Dean as he moves, holding his gaze, understanding moving between them, and nods.

Dean raises his sword as he moves up the stairs to where Metatron stands.

A guard approaches but Dean cuts him down easily, leaving only Metatron left for him to confront.

The Bishop stands before the altar, watching Dean as he moves towards him.

Dean holds his sword with both hands, pointed at Metatron.

The Bishop holds the knight’s stare, a slight sadistic smile on his face.

“If you kill me, Dean, then the curse will go on forever,” Metatron says smugly. “Think of Castiel.”

Dean lets out a soft laugh, though it quickly dies on his lips.

“Castiel is dead,” Dean says sharply. “So I’ll kill you and send you to hell for what you did to us.”

He raises his sword, recoils as if to swing it, and is about to unleash his energy and fury when he is stopped by a single word.

“Dean?” a voice echoes across the cathedral, and everyone gasps, Dean’s swing faltering. He turns in its direction, breath catching.

Sam’s mouth falls open, and Metatron starts to shake with shock, turning from the sight.

Castiel stands in the centre of the cathedral, clothed in the cream robe from Dean’s saddlebag. His dark hair seems to be the shade of night itself, his skin smooth and lit from within, eyes alight like stars themselves.

Metatron closes his eyes, unwilling to break the curse.

Bobby comes to stand beside Sam.

Dean turns to Metatron, and grabs the man, forcing him forward.

“Look!” he demands. “Look at him!” he yells, forcing Metatron’s head upwards. The Bishop opens his eyes and looks to Castiel.

Dean nods.

“Look at me!” Metatron’s gaze is forced to Dean.

Satisfied with that Dean releases the Bishop, and takes a step away, towards Castiel but still facing Metatron. “Now, look at us.”

Metatron cannot help but look at the pair of them, his sight on the both of them.

“Look at us!” Dean repeats harshly, and Metatron watches as the two stand before him.

Bobby places a shaking hand on Sam’s shoulder, and the boy looks to where Castiel stands. Bobby’s breath is shaky as he watches the scene.

“It’s over,” he says softly. “It’s broken.”

Dean lets out a choked breath, the pain of the last two years dissipating into relief as he looks to where Castiel stands. The dark haired man starts to walk towards him, silhouetted by the light of the sun coming through the broken window.

The curse is broken with that.

Sam lets out a breath, the memory in the back of his mind finally breaking through, memories coming back to him, memories of Dean.

Sam had a brother, not one who died when he was young. A brother who left home when Sam was eighteen to become Captain of the guard, a brother who was cursed by the Bishop, a brother who Sam finally recognizes as he looks to where he stands on the cathedral floor.

Metatron still kneels, watching as the lovers move closer and closer to each other.

Dean falls to his knees as Castiel approaches, a hand extended towards him. Castiel lets out a breath as he gets closer, and stops where Dean kneels. His one hand is clenched around something, and Dean reaches out to grab the hand, letting out a gasp at the feel of Castiel’s skin on his. Castiel grasps Dean’s hand with his other, the knight’s eyes locked on where their hands meet.

He takes his hand from Castiel’s as Castiel opens his palm. He looks to Metatron now, his face turning to apathy and disgust.

Metatron still watches the pair from the dais as Castiel closes his palm and moves towards the Bishop.

Dean stays kneeling as Castiel walks up the stairs to stand before Metatron, clenched fist raised as he regards the man with pure loathing.

Castiel holds out his palm and drops the hawk’s hood and jesses before him.

When they hit the floor Metatron closes his eyes, and Castiel turns back to Dean and walks away from Metatron.

Metatron’s expression turns from disbelief to rage in a moment as Castiel walks away from him, and he quickly gets to his feet and grabs his crosier, deadly point rising towards Castiel.

“You will never be together,” he says darkly as he stalks forward.

“Dean!” Sam calls out to the knight, and Dean pulls his sword from the floor and whirls towards Metatron as the Bishop surges forward.

He throws the blade with all the force he can muster, and it forces itself through Metatron’s stomach, sending the man backwards so he is impaled between the sword and the altar board.

Castiel gasps and Sam turns away from the sight as Bobby crosses himself.

Metatron gasps one last time and says a final word as blood drips from his lips,

“Castiel.”

Castiel breathes and looks away as Dean gets to his feet, and the dark haired man turns to the golden haired man. He moves to where Dean kneels and places a hand on his neck. Dean heaves at the sight of the Bishop, killed by his family sword, and with that final death Dean is free.

Castiel places his other hand on Dean’s chest as the first tear falls from Sam’s eye, and he wraps an arm around Bobby’s shoulder, the two of them watching with tearful joy as the lovers come together.

Castiel’s hand presses against Dean’s cheek as Dean looks up at him, his hand on Castiel’s wrist as he takes in the sight of his lover. Castiel is solid before him, real and permanent and breathing beneath his touch.

Dean takes Castiel’s hands as he gets to his feet.

He glances one last time to where the Bishop lies dead, and then looks away as Castiel leads him from the cathedral, out the door. Castiel grips Dean’s arm tightly as they walk.

Sam thumps Bobby on the chest as he watches the lovers walk away, and presses a kiss to the side of Bobby’s face before pulling him into a hug.

Dean stops as they reach the centre of the cathedral, the pair bathed in sunlight, and turns to Castiel. Castiel smiles as he touches Dean’s face, tears glistening in his blue eyes.

“Oh my god,” he finally breathes at the sight of Dean’s face before him, laughing tearfully as Dean smiles at the hand Castiel raises cautiously to his face. Castiel breathes and swallows the laughter, reality setting in as he takes in every detail of his lover’s face; his lips curled into a soft smile he hadn’t worn in two years, the freckles on his cheeks lit by the sun, his green eyes filled with the best kind of tears.

Dean leans in and presses a kiss to Castiel’s raised fingertips, then smiles and looks to Castiel’s face.

Castiel presses his hand to Dean’s neck as his lover leans forward to press a kiss to his lips.

He pulls away, desperate to see Castiel’s face.

The darkness of his eyebrows shading the brightness of his blue, blue eyes, the open mouthed disbelief of his pink lips.

“Castiel,” he breathes, his gaze travelling over the man’s face. He touches Castiel’s hair. “You cut it.”

Castiel laughs at that and lets out a sound of relief as Dean pulls him closer to kiss the side of his mouth.

“I love you,” Dean says softly, pulling back to look at Castiel’s face, revel in saying his name. “Castiel.”

Castiel smiles.

“Dean,” he breathes, the name so sweet on his lips. Dean lets out a soft laugh and pulls Castiel in for another kiss, his arms tight around the other’s shoulders. When they break apart Castiel presses his face into Dean’s shoulder, basking in the light shining on the both of them.

He lets out another laugh as he pulls away, his gaze moving to behind Dean.

Dean turns around as Sam and Bobby move discreetly from the cathedral.

“You two!” he calls out, stopping their movements. They look to the man warily, but Dean smiles slightly and speaks warmly, “Come here.”

The pair pause, but move to the illuminated couple.

Dean places a hand on Bobby’s shoulder as the monk comes to stand before them, and Bobby smiles as he reciprocates the action.

“May God bless you until the end of time,” he says softly as he takes in the sight of the two together again.

Dean leans in to Bobby.

“I bless the day he brought you back to us Bobby,” he says softly with a smile, and Bobby ducks his head and pushes Dean away playfully to disguise the tears in his eyes.

“Idjit,” he says lovingly, and Dean laughs as he turns to Sam.

“And you,” he says as he releases Bobby to press a hand to Sam’s neck and pull him closer. “And you…”

He brings Sam in for a hug, words unable to capture his gratitude towards the thief.

“You knew this whole time that I’m your…” Sam says softly into Dean’s shoulder. Dean pulls away from the hug, hand still on Sam’s neck, and nods.

“How could I ever forget my little brother?” he says fondly, tears in his eyes. Sam laughs.

“So I’m not Wesson, I’m-“

“-A Winchester. My brother,” Dean finishes, smiling at his brother before pulling him closer to kiss his forehead playfully. “The best brother.”

He releases Sam and Castiel takes his hands tightly, smiling beautifully at the boy.

“Thank you so much, for all you have done for us,” he breathes, and pulls Sam in for an embrace. “Thank you.”

Bobby wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder and leads him away, to the sunshine outside.

“You better meet me at the pearly gates you idjit,” Bobby says seriously as Sam pulls the white robe over his head and throws it to the floor. “Don’t you be late.”

“I’ll be there Bobby. Even if I have to pick the lock to get in,” he says happily as they leave the cathedral.

Dean turns to Castiel, and embraces his lover around the waist, lifting him into the air as Castiel lets out a cry of delight.

“Castiel,” he says to the man, twirling him around. Castiel’s hands run through Dean’s hair as he laughs through tears, similar to the ones in Dean’s own eyes.

“I love you,” Castiel takes in the sight of his lover, in the flesh, before his own eyes, for the first time in two years.

“I love you!”

* * *

 


	14. The Ending

Somewhere, far away and in a different time, someone dreams of them.

Dark hair and blue eyes.

Brown hair and green eyes.

They twist and bend together, in harmony, together. Always together. The dream is the happiest of dreams. It warms the dreamer’s heart, though they cannot know why.

In harmony, together.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you know this movie you'll know how beautiful it is. It's certainly one of my favourites. If you don't know it then go see it after reading this.  
> This fic is still in alpha state, if you feel up for the challenge of beta-ing my scattered mind then please message me, I'm sure this is in need of some tightening.


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